


Shore of Life Unknown

by cosmicruin, NoHappyEnding



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Slice of Life, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2019-11-09 01:30:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 49,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17992277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicruin/pseuds/cosmicruin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoHappyEnding/pseuds/NoHappyEnding
Summary: You must remember this: what emerges from the sea will not stay on land forever.





	Shore of Life Unknown

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt #:** 251  
>  **Prompt:** Merpeople can only live on land as humans for 10 years.
> 
> It's going to be their 10th anniversary soon, and a very reluctant Sehun is preparing to leave his unknowing husband.  
>  **Prompter:** Anonymous  
>  **Pairing/Main character(s):** Sehun/Kai  
>  **Side character(s) (if any):** Some OCs, Shin Wonho (Dokgo Rewind), Lee Bumkyu (Dokgo Rewind)  
>  **Word count:** 49.2K  
>  **Warning(s)/Additional tag(s):** very minor mentions of blood, a brief mention of murder (it doesn't happen between Sekai, and neither Sehun nor Jongin commit it), barebacking  
>  **Author's note:** Dear Prompter,  
> I wrote a thing,  
> but the plot ran away from me  
> and now became A Massive Thing.  
> I thought this would be 20k max,  
> but the draft scoffed at me  
> and mocked my inability  
> to correctly predict word counts.  
> So here we are  
> with 29k more,  
> unplanned.  
> Alas.
> 
> This fic is quite Sehun-centric,  
> but the Sekai is prominent, too!  
> I had to tweak your prompt  
> a teensy tiny bit  
> to make everything work.  
> Hopefully,  
> that is okay with you.
> 
> Thank you so much for the prompt.  
> Without it, this fic wouldn't exist.  
> I saw a universe of possibilities  
> of how this might turn out,  
> and this is my chosen interpretation  
> to a prompt as rich as yours.
> 
> I will be responsible for the tissues  
> and your comfort food of choice.  
> Now, I cross my fingers  
> and wish you enjoy  
> my humble offering.
> 
> Much thanks to the NHE Potato Sect  
> who have been understanding  
> and lenient when I needed it most.  
> Much thanks to Ally, as well,  
> for all that you do—  
> PCY attraction denial and all.  
> ((bbuing bbuing!))
> 
>  **Original post date:** 190304

There are three things you must know about the sea.

One is that it holds plenty of stories, older than the creation of man, more invaluable than any sunken treasure.

Another is the vast amount of secrets lurking in its inky waters. Some have been discovered; a greater number of them elusive, the subject of intense debates and unending fascination. Though their existence is disputed and confined within legends and myths until more solid proof is acquired, they exist and are as real as the heartbeat in your chest and the warmth of another’s touch.

Finally, the most important thing you must know—must remember—is that whatever the sea gives you, or whatever you have taken from it, no matter how much you hold on or try to keep this for yourself, everything shall return to its depths one day. 

 

 

☆彡

 

 

One of our stories begins in the deepest recesses of the sea, where no man has never ventured yet, in a cave secluded from plain sight. In here sits a merboy, innocent as he is young, listening to his grandmother reading him a story from his favorite storybook with great concentration. These stories aren’t new to him, and he knows the words by heart. His grandmother’s talent for storytelling is what lures him to listen, allows himself to be whisked away to the magical world above. Through her words, he learns of their ways and customs; in her voice, life’s joys and pains they face.

Sehun has heard of the stories not written in books. Of merpeople mingling with the land dwellers above. It begins with curiosity, always. It’s not uncommon for his kind to venture out and discover what the land offers. He itches to discover what makes mermen and mermaids go back several times. Sometimes, upon their return, they express their wish to stay on land forever. Sehun doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like the thought of not returning to the sea.

“I don’t understand,” Sehun complains to his grandmother, while preparing to retire for the night. His eyes are closing in on him, but his annoyance lends a little energy to stay awake. “What do the humans have we merfolk don’t? Does something exist on land the sea doesn’t possess?”

His grandmother chuckles. Sehun doesn’t like her reaction. It’s like she’s keeping a secret from him. “In time, you will know,” is always her answer, and today is no different.

“When will that time come? Tomorrow? The day after? When will I know?”

His grandmother chuckles once more and kisses him on the forehead good night, marking the end of their conversation.

Sehun’s curiosity doesn’t end there. He asks his friends, the different sea creatures. He skims pages and pages of books but doesn’t find the answer. He tries wheedling it out of his grandmother. His grandmother merely smiles, ruffles his hair as if to say, “I know what you’re doing. My answer remains the same.”

“Give it a rest, won’t you?” Youngho, one of his friends, tells him. They’re out in the school garden with classmates, harvesting newly-grown seagrasses and algae for their weaving class. “Listen to your grandmother. She knows best.”

“Why would some merpeople choose land over water? How can you _not_ want to come back to the sea? The sea is _everything_.” Sehun makes a wide sweeping motion with his arms at their surroundings. The seagrasses he was holding scatter and float away, but he grabs them back. “The sea is home.”

“Maybe they’ve found a better home over there, with the humans,” Youngho says, words coming out more like a guess than a fact.

Sehun scrunches up his nose. He refuses to believe any merfolk will betray the sea, live someplace else. “Maybe. But the sea is home and the home is sea, and nothing can change my mind about that.”

 

 

☆彡

 

 

At the age of seventeen, merteens begin attending classes aimed at educating them on the ways and wonders of the human world. They are educated for a year; sit through exams written and physical to test their knowledge, prove one’s eligibility of venturing above. Those who pass will qualify for the annual excursion merteens partake in as part of their coming of age. Those who don’t will retake the exams until they do. Failing three times diminishes their chances forever.

This system was introduced in answer to the merteens’ perpetual enchantment of the human world. Before, mischief-making merteens tend to sneak off at will and dare each other to toy with fishermen’s boats; play with their senses of sight and sound, delight in the confusion they raise. A test of bravery, some merteens will claim. An example of foolishness, the meradults will counter. With approval from the education council, the sea witch cast a barrier preventing wayward merteens from leaving the waters to avoid the chances of unplanned sightings and tragic accidents.

Sehun packs the last of his belongings in a tiny rucksack he’s woven from the sturdiest seaweeds. In school, aside from the mandatory music, reading, and singing lessons, they are taught to sew clothes in the shape of land dwellers’ figures. It’s no secret these garments are for personal use during the excursion. Sehun sewed plenty of his clothes in preparation for this day. His grandmother helped him take measurements; trusts her keen eye for knowing from a single glance.

His grandmother assists him when needed; watches with a fond, proud smile. Embraces him full of love. Sehun notices how much his grandmother has thinned over the years. Her frame is frail against his, and he’s scared he might break her bones if he hugs any tighter.

“You will enjoy the land above. I know so,” she tells him, before Sehun can even ask. So he asks another question.

“Is this the time I’ve been waiting for to have my answers about merpeople leaving the sea behind?”

His grandmother smiles. It is faint, almost unsure in the way it appears. “If it happens, then it happens.” She caresses his cheek with bony fingers, runs them through his hair. “Sometimes the answer will find you instead of the other way around.”

Sehun doesn’t understand. He doubts he will, but his excitement of going on an adventure is too great to be mired by his grandmother’s vague words.

Sehun joins his classmates as they gather and wait for the other lucky ones. Youngho and his friends have not been as lucky to pass the exams. The fact puts a slight damper on Sehun’s spirits, but they have promised to do better on the next exam; encourage him to enjoy everything, come back with fun stories and souvenirs.

The teacher in charge rounds them up; announces the two golden rules they must abide by upon reaching land.

One: keep your clamshell necklaces close to you at all times.

Two: never reveal to anyone what you are, and where you hail from.

Everyone chorused agreement. The teacher passes around vials of liquid the color of the sky on a sunny, cloudless day. Murmurs of fascination break out among them. They shake the vial, hold it up for perusal, talk among themselves of its probable taste.

“We’ve discussed in class what the vials in your possession are for, but I’ll remind you again,” the teacher speaks, gaining everyone’s silence and attention. “The vial contains a special potion to give you legs. Listen carefully to my instructions: after drinking the potion, swim as fast as you can to the surface. Keep your clamshells at hand. Once you reach, wait for everyone else’s arrival. Do not wander off on your own. If there are no more questions, open the vials. On the count of three.”

Sehun drinks the potion as if parched. The liquid tastes like nothing and slides smoothly down his throat. He’s one of the first to swim up, up, up, swift and enthusiastic.

The swim is not as smooth as he likes or expects. A prickling sensation grows at the base of his tail and spreads rapidly like slippery-smooth algae. The farther he swims, the more his tail becomes uncooperative with its jerky movements, as if something is trying to break out of its confines.

Close to the surface, his fins shrink and disappear. His tail splits in half. His heart almost drops when it happens, but it doesn’t hurt, doesn’t bleed. The scales retreat into the skin of his new pair of magically-given legs.

Sehun doesn’t know how he reaches the surface with his legs, but he touches shore faster than any of his classmates. The first intake of air burns his lungs; nearly chokes, unused to this breathing technique. He instructs himself to breathe in and out one mouthful of air at a time. Repeats until his lungs have adjusted; until he can breathe through his nose without the sensation of choking. His chest swells and recedes, and the motions fascinate him more than any other time.

His throat itches. Each step inland intensifies the irritation, and he wants to claw at his throat but knows it’s futile. Sehun’s been told this is the hardest but necessary process to complete the transformation. He now understands why; commiserates with those before him. He falls to his knees, tired from the exertion of using foreign body parts. The itch is bordering on unbearable, now. And then he feels like retching, throat constricting, purging the source of his discomfort.

Sehun dry heaves, and something drops from his mouth. Small, round, and encapsulated in light; floating. With shaky hands, he cracks open the clamshell he’s wearing around his neck. The round, floating object sits inside, and the brightness disappears once Sehun snaps it shut.

He touches his throat, opens his mouth. Speaks. No sound comes out.

Merteens are required to walk the surface world voiceless to prevent using their voices on humans. The power of their voices is strongest at this age, and untamed. Lack of proper vocal training and technique, paired with impure intentions and mischief, summon catastrophes and produce tragedies. Bewitching voices can enslave humans to merteens with a single command, stripping victims of their autonomy and carrying out orders without question. Spellbinding songs lure many to their ultimate demise; inflict madness most discreet, a gradual downward spiral to deterioration. Too many times it’s happened in the past; hence, the required potion.

Quickly Sehun opens his seaweed rucksack and dresses in the clothes he’s packed. He’s not as clueless as the others around him, who are confused which goes where. The teacher, already dressed, helps them sort it out. Sehun feels funny in his shirt and pants, not used to anything on his body aside from the warmth of the waters and the protection of his tail. The clothes fit him right, though he can’t help fidgeting. How do humans function in these things?

In the absence of their voices, they rely on their teacher for guidance. The teacher has done this countless of times, but unlike them, he takes a second potion to preserve his voice. Once they’re gathered on the shore, dressed in their hand-sewn clothes and masquerading as humans, someone approaches. The teacher introduces the newcomer as the village headman.

The fishing village is idyllic in its semi-secluded location close to the sea. The villagers are aware of Sehun’s kind, of merteens taking yearly trips to the human world and learning of their ways. Straw huts of different shapes and sizes are scattered across the village, some empty, some not. From behind doors and windows of the occupied huts are stares directed at them—shy, curious, but not unwelcome. Children approach with smiles and questions; sweets offered in tiny hands. The adults are more cautious, civil but distant in their interactions.

Sehun and two other classmates are assigned to an empty hut closest to the shore. It’s tiny, perhaps tinier compared to he and his grandmother’s cave. It’s sparsely decorated, containing the bare essentials Sehun’s only seen in illustrated books until today: a round wooden table and chairs, a tiny kitchen, three cots for sleeping, a decent-sized chest of drawers for sharing. Open windows usher in slices of sunlight, flimsy curtains dancing in the morning breeze.

The first three days is spent touring the fishing village and select places outside of it. Sehun can’t stop looking around when they’re taken to the marketplace; immerses himself in its hustle and bustle. The humans are either hurrying to their destinations or walking at leisure. Countless shops selling different items. His classmates show interest in the food, sparkly trinkets. Sehun drifts over to the fabrics, marvels at the different textures. If they don’t understand something, they write questions on their notebooks. The villagers answer by words; demonstration, sometimes.

Like all things new and alluring, the magic fades, and boredom gradually seeps. It fuels Sehun’s appetite for new adventures. Often he prefers engaging in activities with companions. On this rare time, he sets out on his own and arrives at the abandoned lighthouse at the far end of the village.

The lighthouse has captured his curiosity from the beginning, standing solitary but majestic. It’s painted white, large parts discolored by the metallic brown of rust. He climbs the spiral staircase, surprisingly stable from years of disuse; counts two hundred steps to reach the top. Above, he is treated to a breathtaking view of the sea, its waters a glimmering aquamarine under the summer sun. Below, the waves crash against the rocks. Beyond, waters stretching out to the horizon.

Sehun’s not to share this haven with anyone. It’s now his secret place. He explores the rest of the lighthouse, discovers an unlocked door leading to the keeper’s quarters. An eerie calm envelops the once-inhabited space, thick as the dust coating the window panes and various furnitures. Sehun snoops around with cautious, quiet steps. The thrill of exploration runs down his spine. He’s taken back to afternoons as a merchild playing with friends, darting in and out sunken ships and compiling different-colored corals, pretending they’re plundered treasure.

He opens cupboards and drawers but finds nothing of value. He expects the same with the dresser drawer—but not its groaning, or the handle dropping to the floor with an audible clang. Sehun jumps in fright; calms upon glimpsing an object inside.

Round, painted a warm, gold color, and embellished with gemstones along the side. Intricate carvings decorate the lid. Sehun hefts the object and feels its weight. He peruses it from every angle; gasps when the lid cracks open after turning it upside down. Inside, he spies what looks like two heads, but he’s not sure. He shakes the object, guessing it’s stuck. Dust falls, but the contents stay intact. At the base and hidden from view is something that resembles a dial of some sort.

“This is called a music box,” a helpful villager says, on his return. The object has been wiped clean, looking almost new. Sehun watches the villager wind the dial and sets it upright. The lid opens by itself, and a lovely, tinkling tune floats out—none unlike Sehun has heard before. Two figures pressed close together emerge, arms around each other and circling ( _dancing_ , the villager corrects) in time with the music.

Sehun watches at the twirling figures, entranced. The music stops; so do they. He winds the music box again. The music starts again. The figures dance again. The process repeats. Compared to the items he’s seen and touched in the previous days, Sehun’s interest in the music box increases with each rewind.

He retires for the night on his stiff-as-ever cot, the music box playing by his pillow until the last note fades and melds with the silence. Eyes fluttering shut, Sehun wonders about the story behind the sweet-sounding song, if there is one at all.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

A boy is leaning on the railing when he arrives at the top of the lighthouse.

Sehun’s surprised by the new presence, and also a little annoyed. This lighthouse has been his little secret since its discovery, but now, someone’s intruded.

The boy’s back is facing him, stance suggesting he’s gazing out at the vast sea. Something’s plugged in his ears—perhaps the reason he hasn’t heard Sehun approach and tap him on the shoulder.

The boy startles at once and whirls around, looking positively shocked. Sehun’s mouth drops open, not expecting the reaction, though he can’t help a smile from slipping out.

The breeze whistles past them and tousles the boy’s hair. Sehun takes a good look at him. He’s as tall as Sehun, long-limbed, with skin of someone who’s spent a lot of time under the sun. His eyes, wide from the initial surprise, take on a hooded look after he’s calmed, like he’s on the verge of sleeping.

The boy removes the things in his ears. Sehun follows the trail of cords attached to it, and they trace back to something hidden in the boy’s shorts pocket.

“Hi,” the boy greets, the shyness and softness of his voice a pleasant surprise.

Sehun raises a hand and waves in answer.

“What’s your name?”

Sehun isn’t prepared for this question, nor does he expect it. He can only stare helplessly at the boy before him. He doesn’t bring writing materials with him when he’s out exploring on his own, seeing no need for them. He’ll remember to do this from here on out.

The boy studies him for a moment. “Sorry if this is rude, but do you not talk?”

Sehun nods his head as sadly as he can for full effect.

“Where do you live?”

Sehun points to the sea in reflex.

The boy’s strange look tells him of his blunder, so he moves his finger over to the village below.

A look of understanding crosses the boy’s face. “So it’s true, what they say.” He sounds like he’s talking to himself more than addressing Sehun. “The village of lost voices does exist.”

Sehun tilts his head in question.

The boy miraculously reads the gesture correctly and answers, “Plenty of people who live in your village can’t talk. According to legends, it’s the sea goddess’ punishment to the villagers for scorning her a long, long time ago. Since then, people from your village are born without voices, or suddenly lose them growing up.”

Sehun absorbs this information. The story is unfamiliar to him. None of the meradults have told them this. No storybooks have stored it between their pages. The sea may be vast, but news travels far, wide, and fast. In response, he settles for a shrug.

The boy smiles, accepting it as answer. “I don’t think anything like that happened, anyway. The story sounds awfully a lot like old wives’ tales to explain what people couldn’t understand in the past. By the way, my name’s Jongin. What’s yours? Oh, right, you can’t talk. Sorry.” He holds out his arm, taps on the expanse of skin on display. “Write your name here.”

Sehun does as told, hoping he remembers the characters right. He’s done a lot of practicing when they first studied this particular alphabet in human languages class, writing away on any surface available to remember the strokes.

“Sehun,” Jongin says his name with care, after experimenting with the syllables.

Sehun nods.

“Sehun,” Jongin says again.

Sehun nods again.

Jongin smiles and says his name a third time.

Sehun smiles back and nods for the third time.

That night, as the music box plays and the figures dance round and round, Sehun recites the name of his newfound friend in his mind three times— _Jongin, Jongin, Jongin._ With each utterance, his smile grows just like Jongin’s has.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

Jongin, as Sehun finds out later on, is the same age as him and does not live in these parts. He’s here on vacation and stays with his aunt and uncle, who own a house some ways away from the village. They meet every day at the top of the lighthouse, mostly after Sehun’s academic duties are finished and he’s free to do as he pleases. Sometimes, Sehun is early. Sometimes, Jongin complains about waiting too long for him. Sehun wonders how this arrangement has come about but doesn’t question it.

They spend their afternoons leaning on the railing or seated with their backs to the walls as Jongin talks while Sehun listens. Sehun likes listening to Jongin talk. Sehun likes Jongin’s voice. He doesn’t like sitting or standing doing nothing for a long time, though. He drags Jongin to his feet and points to the stairs. Without waiting for a reply, he turns around and runs down, Jongin right behind him calling out, “Wait!”

Sehun doesn’t stop until they’re on the last step. Jongin looks confused and intrigued.

“What are we going to do?” Jongin asks.

Sehun points to the glittering blue of the sea.

“A swim? Just what I need. It’s very hot today.”

Jongin is a fast swimmer, Sehun admits. Sehun is faster than him, however. Perhaps twice faster if he still has his tail. Sehun finds it strange, still, to swim with legs and come up for air on occasion. Jongin challenges him to a game of who could hold their breath the longest underwater. Sehun barely struggles. Jongin admits defeat, albeit begrudgingly.

After their clothes have been baked dry by the summer sun, they cool down in a nearby shop Sehun hasn’t seen or been to before. Two bowls of what Jongin calls chocolate _bingsu_ is served to them. Sehun tilts the glass bowl around for a better, closer look. The presentation is nice. He can’t name most of the ingredients used, but they look tasty to him. Jongin, ever helpful, lists them out by writing them on his palm: crushed chocolate cookies, brownies, ice cream, and chocolate wafer sticks.

The last item is the thin, cylindrical-shaped treats sticking out from the mounds of shaved ice. Sehun munches on one; widens his eyes in shock at its crunchy texture and sweet taste.

“Do you like the wafer sticks?” Jongin asks, with a smile. Sehun nods happily and finishes the last piece. Jongin takes out the wafer sticks from his bowl and passes them to him. Sehun can’t be any happier than he is already. “You must really like sweet things.”

Sehun’s tasted different types of human food since stepping on land. He likes this taste best—it agrees with his taste buds the most.

They don’t spend a lot of time in the lighthouse anymore from that day, now using it as their meeting place. They take afternoon swims. Jongin says he’s going to beat Sehun in swimming and holding his breath underwater. Sehun smirks at him; pretends he’s scared. He beats Jongin in his own games every time. Jongin doesn’t like losing—it’s obvious in the way he looks for chances to cheat. Sehun lets him get away with it if he’s in the mood.

They always drop by the bingsu shop after. They try other bingsu flavors but stick with chocolate on Sehun’s insistence. They visit so frequently the owner doesn’t ask their orders anymore. One smile, and they’re served their bowls of chocolate bingsu. He adds extra wafer sticks for Sehun. Though Sehun enjoys the added wafer sticks very much, the ones from Jongin’s bowl tastes better.

One day, when Sehun arrives at the lighthouse, he doesn’t need to climb the stairs to reach the top. Jongin is standing there, waving at him as he draws close. Beside him is a weird contraption of some sort, with two giant wheels and a basket attached in front. A tiny bell, too.

“Have you never seen a bicycle before?” Sehun’s fascination must be written on his face if Jongin is asking the question. He shakes his head, honest. He tests the word _bicycle_ in his head; files it away for future diction practice. When he looks at Jongin again, there’s no judgment on his face. A smile blooms, instead. “I can teach you how to ride it, if you want.”

Sitting on the bicycle seat feels weird. It’s weirder wearing something on his head—a _helmet_ , Jongin tells him, as he secures the strap under his chin—but it’s bearable. The weirdness fades the longer he grips the handlebars and scoots on the bicycle with his feet to learn what it’s like balancing himself on two wheels. Jongin is a patient teacher, guiding him step by step, giving out clear instructions. Sehun commits more mistakes than he’d like to admit. Jongin assures him it’s okay; he was the same on his first time, too.

Sehun perseveres, determined to get it right. He manages to keep himself upright and balanced without Jongin holding on to the seat in case he tips off sideways. The next step is to push the pedal down until the wheels turn, and he moves forward—up, down, up, down. Slowly. He makes a conscious effort to remember and squeeze the break levers like Jongin has shown him, just in case.

He falls down on the first attempt, scraping his knee on a sharp rock he couldn’t avoid in time. Sehun winces at the sting. Jongin rushes to his side and fusses, but Sehun waves him off. Tries again. The next time the bicycle wobbles, on the verge of veering sideways out of his control, he’s faster in squeezing the breaks. The bicycle stops moving at once with a mild screech. Sehun counts it as victory. With a deep breath, he tries again. Again. And again.

“You did it!” Jongin’s jubilant voice dispels the tension in the air for all those minutes he’s been practicing. “You did it! You can ride a bike now!” He’s jumping for joy in place, cheering loud and throwing his arms up as Sehun glides around him in a smooth circle. Sehun pedals a good distance away to show off his newly-acquired skill but returns to Jongin, always.

Perhaps the excitement has dipped a notch, or he’s come down from the high of a new achievement, but when Sehun returns Jongin’s bicycle, he remembers he’s hurt himself upon bending his knee. The scrape isn’t big, but the tiniest movement enhances the sting. The blood has dried, and it looks unsightly. He’ll need to rinse and lather medicinal algae on it when he goes back.

Jongin is staring at the scrape, too, when he looks up. His face betrays nothing of what he’s thinking, save for stark puzzlement in his eyes. Sehun tilts his head to the side in wonder. The longer the silence stretches, the more Sehun becomes restless.

Finally, Jongin stares him straight in the eye.

“Why is your blood blue?”

The question catches Sehun off-guard. In this defining moment, he is reminded of the stark difference between them; that it doesn’t matter if he has legs now and looks like any regular human he mingles with. A unique quality will always set his kind apart from the rest, like something as simple as the color of their blood.

In his shock, Sehun takes a step back, pulse racing as fast as the thoughts in his head. His skin feels hot not from the summer sun; his chest ice cold with dread and fear. How can something basic slip from his mind?

“Sehun?” Jongin calls out; sounds worried.

The shock and confusion muddles Sehun’s mind. He throws the bicycle aside. It lands to the ground with a harsh crash that pierces the air. Jongin yelps in surprise, and Sehun seizes the opportunity to flee. He grits his teeth to ignore his stinging knee. He runs and runs, never looking back, not even when Jongin calls out his name in a vain effort to stop him.

Sehun doesn’t know how long he’s ran, or how he ends up in the hut. What he knows is that his lungs are burning in their demand for air supply, his legs are aching from having run the distance, and the frantic beat of his heart is whispering all the possible outcomes now that Jongin knows he’s not as human as he masquerades to be.

He spends the rest of the day inside the hut. Tenses up every time he sees shadows draw close to the open door; sighs in relief when it’s someone he knows. Deep inside, Sehun fears one of them may be Jongin, and it sets him on edge. He doesn’t know how to face him, not yet.

The music box keeps him company until the sun dips in the horizon. Sehun’s ears are ringing from the repetition, but he dutifully winds the music box as soon as the song ends. It’s nice, filling his head with this tune. It helps him forget the way Jongin looked at him, not understanding why the boy he’s befriended has blue blood flowing in his veins.

The moon shows itself, the sky a dark canvas pinpricked by stars. The sea is bathed in moonlight, an ethereal sight Sehun takes in with deep appreciation. In his hands he cradles the playing music box, the melody merging with the wind’s sighs. For the first time since setting foot on land, he feels at a loss on what to do and yearns for the company of his grandmother; to lay his head on her lap and have her fingers stroke through his hair.

“It will be all right,” he can almost hear her say, gentle and reassuring in a way that makes him believe. Sehun’s so sure this is what she’ll tell him if she knew of his present troubles. “Sometimes things happen that will be hard to accept, or beyond our control. Sometimes it will hurt, too, and you’ll feel like your heart is being cut open to bleed. But it will be all right.”

_“It will be all right.”_

Sehun grimaces. The words don’t sound right to his mind’s ears or on his tongue when he mouths them. He repeats the words, anyway, though no sound falls from his lips. Each time, with growing confidence, he says the words over again. Until they feel right to his soundless mouth. Until he believes.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

Jongin finds him first.

Sehun avoids going to the lighthouse, but he can’t resist the call of the sea. It pulls him to its sand and waters, and though he has all but dipped his feet, the restlessness is appeased. He tries not to look at the lighthouse, pointedly staring at the blue waters stretched in every direction; the seagulls flying overhead. He ignores the whisper of invitation by the towering structure, of who he knows may be found there.

He doesn’t know how long he’s stood distracted, but he catches it, the unmistakable sinking of feet in sand. In front of him is Jongin walking over to where he stands, a box in his hands. Sehun’s first thought is to run. His legs don’t move, but the absence of panic in him is strange—almost expected, in a way he can’t explain. The way Jongin looks scared he’ll bolt again must contribute, as well.

“You didn’t show up yesterday.” The accusation is mild in Jongin’s voice. “I waited for you. I didn’t know where to find you.” His words are now mixed with something akin to sadness.

Sehun notes the sulky set to Jongin’s mouth. _“I’m sorry,”_ he mouths.

Jongin shakes his head. “Don’t say sorry. I’m the one who said something weird.” He pauses, takes a deep breath, perhaps to draw strength for what he’ll say next. “I don’t care if… if the color of your blood is different. I don’t care if you’re different. You’re still Sehun to me. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.” Uncertainty flashes in his eyes. Then, more timid than Sehun’s used to seeing; hearing: “Can we still be friends?”

Sehun dreamed of the many possibilities involving their next meeting. None of them are like this. He much prefers this conclusion than the sadder varieties that leave his cheeks damp come morning light. The bashfulness in Jongin’s question takes him aback, but this is how Sehun knows he’s sincere in seeking reconciliation.

 _“You don’t need to say sorry.”_ Sehun writes this on Jongin’s arm. Swears it with his heart. _“We never stopped being friends.”_

The smile blooming on Jongin’s face reminds Sehun of iridescent spring flowers he’s seen in textbooks, sprouting open under the dazzling sun and showing off their beauty to the world. Sehun’s unsure why he’s doing comparisons; why he thinks all the flowers combined are incomparable to the sight of Jongin’s smile. It seems fitting. Right.

“This is for you.” Jongin hands him the box. A peace offering. In front is a picture of the wafer sticks Sehun has come to love so much. “Are we okay now?”

Sehun nods his head vigorously, delighted by the present. The dread in his chest dissolves. Now, there is nothing but the warmth of the sun on their backs as they walk to the lighthouse, munching on wafer sticks, a silence shared but not uncomfortable. The chocolate’s sweetness coats Sehun’s tongue and stays until sundown.

They ease back into the flow of spending their days together. Swimming in the sea and holding contests of endurance, Sehun winning all of them. Exploring places outside the village and its offerings, those traversed by many and parts unknown. Relishing the bingsu on dreadfully hot days, Jongin giving him his wafer sticks without a second thought. Taking turns using Jongin’s bicycle, and one day Sehun bringing his own he borrowed from a villager. It’s near identical to Jongin’s, differing only in color and lacked a bell, though those are forgotten fast once they sail past sceneries of rice paddies and tiny huts, endless rows of trees and modest shops.

As they wring their hair from seawater after an invigorating swim, Sehun notices Jongin’s eyes sliding far too often to his direction. It’s neither an unwelcome nor perverse gaze; one of intrigue, rather, fixed on a certain point of his body. Sehun later realizes it’s the clamshell around his neck. He doesn’t say anything but tucks this information at the back of his mind. Once they’re settled, drying out their clothes and their skin smelling of salt and sea, Sehun writes the question on the damp skin of Jongin’s arm.

_“What do you want to know about the clamshell?”_

Jongin blushes, as if caught doing a misdeed, but doesn’t say anything in defense. A shy smile appears on his face. “You never go anywhere without the clamshell necklace. Is there something special behind it?” Then, hurriedly: “But you don’t have to tell me! It’s okay to have your own secrets.”

Sehun doubts he’ll tell Jongin now, or ever. If Jongin will believe him after learning the truth. But it’s enough Jongin’s noticed, expressed interest. Leaves it to him to decide when he’s ready to share.

 _“Do you think the clamshell is pretty?”_ Sehun etches this question, instead. _“I found it myself.”_ He remembers his merboy years participating in a clamshell harvesting contest for a chance to own and use one as his future voice repository. He emerges victorious among his peers, snatching the prettiest from the batch.

Jongin nods. “I think it suits you. May I touch it?”

Sehun bobs his head. Jongin reaches out, careful and slow, as if giving him a chance to change his mind; say no, not today. Sehun does none of these.

It’s fascinating, watching the gentle press of Jongin’s fingers against the smooth surface of the shell; mapping out the ridges by running his fingertips along the grooves. Jongin strokes the shell like one does to a newborn bird. Sehun watches the way Jongin’s fingers move, mesmerized by the movements. The next time his gaze lifts, Jongin is looking right at him; face drawn close he can see the curve of his lashes, the specks of gold in his eyes. A hitch of breath, but Sehun’s unsure who exhales it. He doesn’t know what to make of their sudden closeness, or why his heart is suddenly beating so hard.

It’s Jongin who draws away first, lashes lowered, cheeks streaked pink. He looks out into the sea before his gaze slides back to him. Head inclined, smile soft around the edges.

Sehun reciprocates; revels in this serene moment of staring at each other. His cheeks feel hot, but they don’t feel sun-warmed; his heartbeat, not slowing in the slightest.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

After a productive calligraphy class at the community gazebo, Sehun finally remembers to ask his teacher why this fishing village bears such a foreboding name. The village of lost voices. The village where merpeople mingle with humans, communicating through body language.

His teacher studies him a moment; sighs, as if expecting one of them to ask sooner or later. Sehun stands unmoving; waiting. Another moment, and his teacher speaks.

“Once, a long time ago, a mermaid traded her life at sea to become a land dweller. They met like this: the mermaid loved to sing, and the fisherman, during an early morning of seafaring, was lured by her voice. She did not fear him, and he did not pose a threat. They fell madly in love with each other, and the fisherman asked her if she’d be his bride. She said yes.

“Her voice was the loveliest among our kind; on land, it was no different. Powerful, too. Every time she sang a song on her husband’s departure to sea, he would come back with nets and nets full of fish. She sings to restore him to good health if he falls ill, and croons the wildest of beasts that stray to their yard into submission. She was like a goddess of fortune, and the fisherman was grateful for everything she’s done to help him. Perhaps that was where the problem began; where the envy and greed from his peers took root and grew.

“One day, the fisherman went out to sea for the daily catch, as per usual. His wife sang a song for good harvest, as per usual. His absence _was_ unusual, when the others have returned to shore and he did not. She waited and waited, but she saw no sign of her husband. She asked the other fishermen if they’d seen him, his boat, but they all said no.

“The fishermen saw an opportunity. They fed her lies; told her to do their biddings in exchange for searching. An abundant harvest of fish. Good weather. Curing their relatives’ sickness and ailments. Bigger game to catch. Anything they could think of asking from her. The more they received, the less progress she heard. She suspected something was amiss, even in her unwavering optimism.

“Desperate and wanting answers, she asked help from her friends from down below. They investigated for her and found out a most gruesome truth: out at sea, her husband had been killed by his fellow fishermen from sheer bitterness. Some of the fish had overheard the bickering. They asked him to let his mermaid wife sing for them, too; to have a bountiful harvest, to have their share of glory. Her husband would’ve agreed, but he saw right through them; knew of their ill intentions, knew of their intended exploits if he relented. He staunchly refused. His refusal was not taken well by the others. It resulted in a fight, one her husband did not win. A paddle had been used to bludgeon him on the head, repeatedly, without mercy; his remains, unknown.

“Devastated and enraged by the demise of her husband, the mermaid returned to the village and sang. Unlike other times, this was not a song for a generous catch or fair weather. This was an ominous song, summoning storm clouds that gathered around the village. Thunder roared fierce and lightning struck, scaring the villagers. The mermaid sang with all her might; channeled her wrath and commanded the waves to aid in avenging her husband. Gigantic waves washed away the houses of the fishermen who had a hand in the death of her husband. At the song’s crescendo, she cursed these fishermen’s families and their succeeding generations to be without voices. She wanted them to have a taste of her husband’s helplessness when he pleaded for his life, and it fell on deaf ears.

“Some merpeople who have heard of this song at the time had described it as grating, like waves crashing on rocks. Some have described it to be sorrowful; others, distressing. After the curse had been laid upon the village, the mermaid disappeared, never to be seen again. No one in the village believed it. Not until the cursed lineage’s first child did not cry upon coming into this world, in spite of the midwife smacking its bottom. Not until some of their children grew up filling their houses with babbles and laughter; then, silence, voices having stopped working. Not until they reached adulthood and caught a fever rendering their voices useless for life.”

Sehun stays quiet long after the story’s end. He does not blame the mermaid for cursing the fishermen; the damage she’s done to the village. He just finds it sad her situation has pushed her to be so angry and wrathful. His mind drifts to the potion they’ve drank, the sea witch’s barrier. A most morbid tale, yet his guts tell him this must be the real story behind the rules and restrictions surrounding the excursion.

Sehun scribbles his question on a piece of paper. _“Will the curse be lifted?”_

“Perhaps, but it is hard to say when. Centuries have passed, and tides have changed, but this village has inhabitants who cannot speak or lose their voices suddenly to this day,” his teacher says. “I have heard of another tale, though less common, about the village headman’s ancestors praying ten days and ten nights by the cliffs, calling on the sea goddess and begging for her mercy. The sea goddess heard and gave them a chance for redemption. For a thousand years, they are to host and accommodate the young merpeople who ascend from her waters and reach their shores. They are not to harm them and must be protected from danger. If they can move the sea goddess with their sincerity, she will end the curse’s reign.”

Sadness washes over Sehun for the innocent people who must continuously suffer for the sins of their forefathers. For the children who never hold back their smiles as they teach him how to play their games, and leave him wondering what their shrieks of happiness sound like. For the elderly who make sure his plate is never empty during meals; who show their gratitude by squeezing his hands tight after helping them with trivial tasks since they can’t express their feelings with words.

“Let it serve as a lesson that not all humans are kind, like us merpeople,” his teacher says, after the considerable pause. “Some only appear to be kind but are more savage than beasts. One of the excursion’s aims is to expose you to different kinds of humans. You are fortunate if you only meet the kindhearted ones. Be wary of the humans with malicious agendas.”

Sehun lies on his cot and stares up the ceiling, sleep far away tonight. The music box is singing next to his ear. His teacher’s words resonate in his mind, and then drifts back to Jongin. He believes Jongin is one of the good humans. Jongin’s never done anything to upset him. He can’t imagine Jongin having a bad bone in his body. It just seems unbelievable. How can someone with one of the most stunning smiles he’s ever seen be capable of doing anything cruel?

 

 

☆彡

 

 

“Do you know how to dance, Sehun?”

Sehun inclines his head in question. He has learned of this phenomenon in class; read about it in books and seen painted pictures. There is music involved, and two people linked by the arms, at most. Something similar to what the man and woman of his music box are doing, he now remembers, seaming the details together. There is no equivalent to dancing under the sea, for merfolk are more inclined to singing on their merrymakings.

“I like to dance,” Jongin tells him, after Sehun shakes his head in answer. “I fell in love with dancing when I was young. It’s one of my favorite things to do.”

Sehun’s never seen Jongin’s face so expressive, so bright, talking about something until dancing. Jongin must love dancing very much if it puts such a wide smile on his face. There’s a twinkle in Jongin’s eye that rival the brightest evening stars, excitement palpable from the way he’s talking quite fast.

“I can teach you how to dance, if you want,” Jongin said, rising to his feet and holding out his hand for Sehun to take. “It’s not hard. You just have to follow my lead.”

With little exposure to dances, Sehun isn’t sure if what they’re doing is even close to being remotely correct; but he trusts Jongin, so he leaves it to him. They stand facing each other, and he allows Jongin to coordinate their limbs. Sehun isn’t used to standing so close to Jongin. Having Jongin’s hand rest on his shoulder blade. Sehun isn’t used to the wild beating of his heart. Having Jongin gaze at him up close as he lists out instructions.

Jongin calls this dance the waltz. Sehun stashes away this foreign word at the back of his mind for later studying. Jongin guides him through the motions; one step forward, one step back. It’s a little awkward, at first. Sehun commits a lot of mistakes; steps on Jongin’s feet plenty of times. Jongin doesn’t get angry and laughs it off; continues teaching him with surprising patience. Slowly, Sehun gets used to the movements; ingrains them in his bones and his memory. Moves smoother the longer they dance; turned and glided across the expanse of sand.

“You’re a quick learner,” Jongin comments, smile never faltering. He twirls Sehun around for a half beat, and then faced each other again. “Your body is very graceful.”

 _“Thank you.”_ Sehun can’t help beaming at the praise. Underwater, he has been called graceful, too, by peers and sea creatures. He takes pride in his refined swimming; in his figure and beautiful tail. It is unfortunate he cannot show these off on land; to Jongin, the only human he wants to see.

“It’s too bad we don’t have music,” Jongin says, a little pout forming on his lips. “I’m not the best singer. I can hum? There’s a song I keep listening to these days. It goes like this.”

Jongin times his hum to their steps. His voice is soothing; the melody slow. A touch melancholic, though no lyrics are sung. Sehun listens; immerses himself in the tune. It plucks at his heartstrings; plucks at his memory of something familiar.

 _“I know this song,”_ Sehun hurriedly writes on Jongin’s arm. Jongin blinks, and he takes it as a chance to continue. _“I’ve heard it before.”_

Sehun plays the music box for him the next time they meet as proof he isn’t lying.

Jongin’s eyes enlarge, awed and surprised. “It’s the same song!” he confirms, taking out a device from his pocket. Square and black, with shiny buttons to the side. He presses one, and the device splits open.

Sehun startles, stepping back. He’s never seen anything like it before.

Jongin laughs at his reaction, but not unkindly. If he thinks Sehun is acting strange for never seeing this contraption, he doesn’t point it out. He lets Sehun touch it; tinker to his curiosity’s content. Inside the device is another object relatively smaller in size. Two small holes and black film. Too complicated for Sehun to wonder how this works. He wrinkles his nose.

Jongin laughs again; plugs a cord into the hole on the side and offers one of the snake-like coils to him. Sehun stands perusing it from all sides, unsure if he should bite it or do something else. Jongin demonstrates for him; plugs it in his ear. Sehun finds the sensation odd, like losing half of his hearing.

Music plays in his ear. Sehun nearly jumps in surprise. Jongin grabs his hand to steady and help calm him down. It works, but now Sehun can’t think of anything else but Jongin’s hand holding his; the softness of his palm, the firmness of his grip.

Until the music starts taking on a more solid tune, unknown, and then recognizable. A man is singing. Although Sehun doesn’t understand a word, he can tell the singer sounds so sad; nostalgic. Sehun listens closely; forgets about the heat of Jongin’s palm for a while. The song the man is singing matches the tune his precious music box plays. Now he knows there’s a story behind the song; the tune that lulls him to sleep every night, promising good dreams.

They waltz to the song with their clumsy limbs and clumsier steps. It’s hard to time the steps in accordance to the song’s beat. A few times Jongin is leading too fast. Most times Sehun is tripping on his own feet while following. Somewhere in the middle, they give up dancing accordingly and create their own rhythm. A haphazard waltz danced to the music of Jongin’s humming and hearty laughter. Sehun prefers this by miles.

They sit and rest, elbows and shoulders touching. Sehun notices something when he opens the music box and watches the couple twirl in place. He writes his observation on the sand. _“They’re dancing the waltz, just like us.”_

“Oh.” Jongin smiles at the dancing figures. “You’re right.” The circling stops. So does the music box tune. “They look happy dancing together.”

Sehun looks at the figures; the smiles painted on their faces. He motions for Jongin to watch what he’ll write next.

_“I’m happy dancing with you.”_

Jongin stares at him like he can’t believe what he’s reading. He’s quiet, and his face softens. It’s a look Sehun hasn’t seen on him before. It’s a look that gets his pulse racing.

“You are?”

The question is asked so softly Sehun almost doesn’t catch it.

 _“I am.”_ Sehun nods, too, for emphasis. _“I’m happy just by spending time with you.”_

Jongin’s blossoming smile worsens the racing of his pulse; the heat in his cheeks. Sehun doesn’t think he’s said anything out of the ordinary, but if he gets to see this kind of expression on Jongin, he doesn’t think he minds.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

Perhaps Sehun being unmindful is what removes a veil over his eyes. He notices that something else entirely has changed. That something might be wrong.

The hammering in his chest intensifies from the mere sight of Jongin running up to him, waving an arm in the air, smile summer bright. A special kind of giddiness runs through his body when they travel down dirt paths on their bikes side by side or climb trees to pick their fruits for eating. He finds himself studying Jongin’s face with growing frequency, regardless of what they’re doing; panics when Jongin looks his way and feels guilty, like he’s done something he shouldn’t. If Jongin notices anything strange about him, either he doesn’t think too much about it, or keeps quiet out of politeness.

The next few days witness an increased activity in the village. Preparations for the annual harvest festival are underway. Men stockpile bamboos and wood, crafting them into various inventions using handheld tools and team effort. Women huddle by groups in the gazebo or outside someone’s hut marinading slabs of meat in huge vats, curing sea food, peeling and slicing large amounts of vegetables. Teenagers and children lend a helping hand by carrying out simpler tasks or sent on errands.

Sehun wonders if this celebration will match the human festivals they’ve learned in class. He doesn’t have time to dwell more on the thought when Jongin pulls him to the side to make way for a herd of goats.

“You should look where you’re standing,” Jongin gently chides. He’s holding Sehun’s hand from when he’d pulled him.

Sehun expects him to let go any moment. The thought surprisingly pinches him with sadness.

Their hands stay clasped as they continue wandering. Sehun’s confused why Jongin isn’t letting go; why he’s so happy about something as simple as this, why the erratic beating of his heart hasn’t calmed.

“When is the festival?” Jongin asks one of the passing carpenters.

“On the night of the full moon. Fourteen days from now,” the carpenter answers.

Jongin makes a sound of awe. “That’s near the end of summer.”

The end of summer. Fourteen days from now.

Sehun can’t believe it’s slipped from his mind. Seven days after the full moon, the excursions ends, and all merteens return to the sea, easing back into their lives with tails and without legs; with their voices back in their throats.

Fourteen days until the end of their summer as land dwellers.

Fourteen days until the end of his summer with Jongin.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

Humming the song from Jongin’s tape becomes commonplace in their day to day moments. It remains a mystery what the song is about, the language they’re both not familiar with, but it doesn’t stop them from making up words to replace those they can’t understand and seam it with the melody. Combined altogether, it doesn’t make sense, but neither of them minds.

Sehun scrawls their makeshift lyrics on papers and corner pages without realizing. And every time he does, he thinks of Jongin. His mind has connected the song to him long ago, as he had with many other details: sweet wafer sticks, bicycle rides, childish streaks, childlike pouts, holding hands, the unexplainable pulsations when his eyes are focused on him.

Sehun wonders if Jongin remembers him in the things he sees every day. If he thinks of him from time to time when they’re not together. He wonders if Jongin also experiences the frenzied thudding of a heart behind the rib cage when he sees him.

Today’s weather is humid but bearable; though they’re too lazy to move from the tree they sought shelter in not far from the shore. Jongin is lying on the pallet, hands cushioning his head, talking about the books he’s read the night before. Sehun sits beside him listening while his hands are busy weaving a flower crown. The pretty shade of pinks and purples from a bush they walked past stole his attention, and his hands itched to do some weaving. As a weaver’s grandchild, he misses the constant activity of his hands; caressing the different sea plants for a feel of their textures before shaping them into their client’s desired items. Unlike humans, garments aren’t a necessity for merpeople, but some like to feed their vanity by showing off their beautifully-woven shawls and mantles on fancy functions.

Jongin sits up at the same time Sehun has finished twining the last stem into place. “That’s so beautiful,” he says, sounding genuinely impressed. “I think it will look good on you.”

Sehun cocks his head in wonder. Writes on a wooden slat. _“Do you think so?”_

Jongin nods. Smiles. “I know so. Here, let me.” He takes the flower crown and secures it atop Sehun’s head with gentle hands. He leans back and grins, pleased with the result. “See, I was right! The flower crown suits you a lot. It matches your golden hair. You look like a fairy tale prince.”

Sehun doesn’t think Jongin’s lying; can’t see any trace of jest or deceit on his face. He believes him, despite his bashfulness. To show his gratitude, he weaves a matching crown for Jongin. The way Jongin’s face brightens when he accepts it is a sight to behold.

Waltzing while wearing a flower crown proves challenging. Sehun can’t move too fast or too much, fearing the crown might slide off. Jongin seems to sense his distress and moves slow, pace measured. They’re improving with the waltz; the same can’t be said about properly singing the correct lyrics. Jongin vows he’ll learn the lyrics, find out the meaning; tell Sehun once he does. He can’t guarantee he’ll find out right away, but he promises Sehun he’ll do it.

Sehun accepts the promise with a nod. Catches himself in time before his smile slips off his face at the thought Jongin may not be able to fulfill his promise.

The impending end of summer is drawing close, as well as their separation. Sehun wishes for time to slow down so he can spend more time on land. Spend more time with Jongin. He hasn’t done everything with him; hasn’t found the answer yet why thinking about Jongin sometimes makes his chest so, so full with emotions he can’t detangle or grasp. Sehun needs more time to figure out why he can’t stop wanting to hold Jongin’s hand as they walk; why hearing his laughter instantly improves his sour mood; how the simple utterance of his name from Jongin’s mouth makes it sound like the most beautiful song he’s heard.

The fishing village grows increasingly busy as the harvest festival draws close. Sehun helps the villagers; so do his classmates. Working keeps him occupied, too busy for sad thoughts. He learns how tedious but rewarding festival preparations are like: decorations built and painted the colors of the rainbow; food preparations showing him a new world of culinary delight so unlike theirs; handpicked songs and dances rehearsed for the special night.

The harvest festival arrives. Elation leaves no corner of the village untouched; laughter ringing in the air, happy faces everywhere. Friends, relatives, and visitors from different cities and neighboring villages arrive, bringing with them food and wine and stories. Sehun is swept up in the addictive euphoria. He’s never seen so many humans gathered in one place. It’s a challenge to navigate the crowds, but he keeps an eye out for Jongin in case he arrives.

And when he does, Jongin is smiling at him so brightly, so warmly, his heart jumps in his chest.

Jongin’s excitement fits right in with the festivities, anticipating what’s in store, what to do. Sehun leads him through the crowds but not without motioning for his hand to be held, avoiding chances of separation. He almost sighs when their hands clasp together, and the jumping of his heart intensifies when Jongin intertwines their fingers without an ounce of reluctance.

The villagers pay homage to the sea goddess on the rise of the full moon, offering their best food and wine on a small altar carved from oak wood, decorated with polished stone, and set up on the shore. They express their gratitude for the generous catches of fish they have reaped this year; for sparing them from her wrath during natural calamities and providing protection from the perils in her waters.

The solemn ceremony segues to the celebration. A bonfire has been set up in the beach. People have flocked around it, chatting among themselves, couples cozying up to each other. Sehun and Jongin find a good spot where the fire warms them up just right, sharing food in one plate.

The feasting and drinking are accompanied by merry music, played by a group of elderly men using various instruments. The human youths are the first to dance, soon followed by others. Even Sehun’s classmates cannot resist the call of a good melody.

Five songs, and then the music changes from fast to slow, a sweet tune hanging in the air. Groups make way for the couples who want to dance. Others have approached their person of interest, offering a red flower in silent invitation. Sehun is intrigued by the amount of shy smiles and shier stares as the flowers are accepted and they proceed to dance. The entire process resembles a courtship, somewhat.

A red flower enters his line of vision.

Jongin.

Sehun’s eyes widen in genuine surprise. He looks left and right; points to himself. _“Me?”_ he mouths, still unbelieving.

Jongin nods, eyes crinkling, smile disarming. A little to their right, Sehun notices a pair of girls walking hand in hand close to the bonfire. Some boys are paired off with boys. Sehun thinks back to his music box; the man and woman dancing. Perhaps a courtship dance is not something only boys and girls can do together.

He takes the flower and tucks it away in his pants pocket. Then, he takes Jongin’s hand and together they find a space for themselves. They copy the way the other couples move. Jongin leads them, as usual. Sehun does a good job of not stepping on his toes while dancing. He’s smiling so hard his cheeks are starting to hurt. Jongin seems like he’s enjoying himself from the way his eyes sparkle; the size of his grin. Though for all his soft laughter and softer smiles, Sehun wonders about the fondness in Jongin’s gaze settled on him.

The song ends, and everyone retreats to the side when a new tune is played. Sehun observes the closeness between the newly-formed pairs; writes a question on Jongin’s arm.

_“If that was a courtship dance, does this mean we’re a couple?”_

Perhaps it’s the glow from the bonfire, or Sehun’s eyes are playing tricks on him, but he thinks he sees Jongin fluster. Their hands are still entwined as they move away from the bonfire to a quieter space of the beach. The breeze blowing in from the sea is cool against Sehun’s skin, but Jongin’s hand stays warm in his touch.

They stop to admire the stars overhead. Jongin points out the different constellations and names them as he goes. Sehun listens to him, following the direction of his finger. Taps Jongin when he finishes for his attention; writes along the length of his shoulder.

_“You didn’t answer my question.”_

Jongin looks more flustered than ever, like a merchild caught wearing the precious pearls of their mother without permission. He looks adorable struggling to find his words.

Sehun wants to tease him some more. Tamping down the urge to smile, he hastily asks another question.

_“Do you want us to be a couple?”_

Jongin’s face takes on the color of red algae. He doesn’t let go of Sehun’s hand, but he’s not looking at him, either. “Can’t I at least confess to you first?” he murmurs beneath his breath, but Sehun hears him, anyway.

Sehun writes his response on Jongin’s arm next.

_“I accept your confession.”_

Jongin’s expression is a cross between mortified and elated. The emotions are playing so openly on his face, and the corners of his mouth are trembling from either restrained laughter or hesitation. “Now you’re just making fun of me,” he whines, jutting out his lower lip so it forms a pout, though he sounds neither annoyed nor angry.

Sehun shakes his head. Means it with his heart. This time, he unleashes a smile at Jongin’s childishness.

Jongin’s petulance doesn’t last, features smoothed over by the kind of seriousness Sehun’s never seen on him before. Jongin steps close, eyes fixed on him. Sehun is held in place by his gaze; sees in it something lovely and beautiful but intense and deep like the sea.

“At least let me confess properly,” Jongin said, a pout in his words, although Sehun can’t find it in himself to crack a smile from how breathless he’s rendered by their proximity. “I told you before it’s okay to have your own secrets. I have mine. But I’m sharing one with you now because I want you to know.”

Jongin’s smile is nothing short of breathtaking—one he wants to keep forever and ever in the deepest part of his heart. Sehun is sure the next set of events will soon join his treasure trove of cherished moments: Jongin reaching out to hold his other hand, squeezing, perhaps for courage, and hope; the next few words coming out of his mouth, freezing Sehun on the spot but also giving him a giddiness he’s never experienced before.

“I was worried of your reaction if you didn’t feel the same way. So I thought of keeping it to myself. But… it’s hard.”

Jongin takes a deep breath. Another. Sehun can tell he’s nervous from the sudden clamminess of his palms; their subtle shake as he holds on. It’s his turn to squeeze Jongin’s hands in assurance; urges him to continue.

“I don’t know when it started. What I _do_ know is that I wanted to spend all my time with you. Once, I was walking back home after parting ways, and I felt so sad. I couldn’t explain why, but my chest felt heavy, and I wanted to see you again. I thought I was just feeling funny and thinking strange things. But every day since, it’s been the same. I feel so happy when I’m with you I don’t want the day to ever end, and I feel so sad when I’m walking home alone it takes a lot to not run back to you.”

Jongin chuckles, a sheepish sound. Thanks to the full moon and stars above, together with the various lamps scattered about, Sehun sees the pretty shade of red invading his cheeks.

“What I’m trying to say is…” Jongin breaks the hold of one pair of their hands, takes Sehun’s wrist and gently lays his palm atop his chest. Sehun senses it after a moment: the life beneath his hand, the unmistakable palpitation of a heart matching the rhythm his own. “Take responsibility for what you’ve done.”

Sehun grins; nods fervently. _Yes, I will take responsibility. Yes, I return your feelings. Yes, I feel the same way you do, and it’s increasingly hard to not want things with you since I’m leaving soon._

Jongin blows out a huge, relieved sigh—probably one he has been holding back for some time. The tension in his shoulders bleeds away, his entire body relaxing as he drops his forehead on Sehun’s shoulder. His laugh is shaky but relieved. Happy. Sehun rubs a hand up and down his back, hoping to soothe him. It works: Jongin calms, and when he lifts his head again, a request falls from his mouth Sehun doesn’t expect.

“Is it okay if I kiss you?”

Sehun nods; doesn’t need to think it over. If his heart has been hammering wildly against his chest, this time, he thinks it will claw its way out and run away when Jongin inches his face close, closer, and presses a soft kiss to his cheek.

Sehun feels the kiss with his entire body, like a warm flow of electric current traveling to every nerve ending and setting it ablaze. He feels like he’s brimming with warmth. He feels like he’s soaring in the sky. Heat skims his cheeks and stays there not even the cool sea breeze can cure.

Jongin isn’t faring any better with his rosy cheeks, but he looks overjoyed. Sehun doesn’t wait and plants a kiss to Jongin’s cheek. He underestimates his eagerness; leans in too fast his nose and lips smash against Jongin’s cheek in such an ungraceful way it embarrasses him afterward. An entirely silly kiss that leaves him self-conscious. Sehun wants to dive into the sea and hide.

Jongin looks awestruck, instead. Touched. Euphoric, in the way he holds the cheek Sehun’s kissed and beams so radiantly he puts the full moon to shame.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

Hand-holding has become a frequent occurrence. Sehun initiates, reaching for Jongin’s hand by himself, or offering his own to be held. Sometimes he does it without knowing, hand unconsciously groping air. Though the moment the space between his fingers are filled with Jongin’s, his chest overflows fast with bliss.

Cheek kisses have become a staple, too. Jongin always asks permission first. Sehun appreciates his manners, though he sometimes senses Jongin staring at him, as if stopping himself from planting one on his cheek. On the umpteenth time this happens, Sehun raises an amused brow and taps his cheek. Jongin’s eyes enlarge comically, but it gives way to a relieved expression. Sehun tells him to take it as infinite permission. Now, Jongin kisses him on the cheek as he pleases. At first, Jongin’s a bit shy doing it around other people, but he grows bold enough to withstand public eyes on them after swiftly pressing his lips on Sehun’s cheek outside the bingsu shop. No one showed strong reactions, if at all.

Every day is more blissful than the last, just like a fairytale. Though like all fairytales, this one comes to an eventual end.

The teacher has spoken what Sehun has long dreaded: they are to leave by the last moon phase, return to their life under the sea. The summer has given them ample experiences of human life, and they have a number of years to decide whether or not they wish to come back in the future. For now, they must head home.

Sehun’s chest tightens at the notion of leaving land; leaving Jongin behind. He doesn’t know what to do, how to approach the subject with him. He can’t bear the sadness of the fact himself, what more when he see the very same emotion on Jongin’s face? Sehun doesn’t think he can take it, but he needs to tell him soon. They don’t have much time left to spend together.

Said time is lost to the arrival of a typhoon, forcing everybody to stay indoors. The offerings from the festival must have won them the sea goddess’ favor, having earned her protection from the violent tides and destructive winds.

In the safety of the hut, waiting for the typhoon to pass, Sehun loses count of the times he plays the music box. He conjures the memory of Jongin’s touch on his skin, the melody of his laughter ringing in his ears. Jongin’s hand in his as they walk side by side; never missing the chance to press close when he wants to share an observation, a secret. The imprint of Jongin’s lips on his cheek after a fluttering kiss; the warmth he exudes from one smile alone. Sehun uses these thronging memories as his shelter from the seeping sadness; realizes how dependent he’s been on Jongin’s company since meeting him.

The typhoon dissolves on the third day, not an ounce of sunlight in its wake. Sehun doesn’t waste another moment and runs for the lighthouse. The shore is a gloomy landscape of clumped seaweed and driftwood washed ashore; gray clouds gathering, drizzle falling. Sehun seeks refuge in the keeper’s quarters. He doubts Jongin will climb to the top in this weather. Wonders if he’ll come at all.

No sooner has he finished brushing away the stray raindrops on his hair and shoulders does he hear footsteps behind him. Jongin barges into the quarters, hair wind-tousled, chest heaving, cheeks flushed from running. Concern flares as Sehun takes in Jongin’s disheveled appearance. He reaches out, but not fast enough, because he suddenly has an armful of Jongin, taking him by complete surprise.

Jongin hugs him close, face nestling in the crook of his neck, saying nothing. Sehun presses a hand between his shoulder blades; feels him shivering from the touch.

“I missed you,” Jongin says, before Sehun can do anything else.

 _“I missed you, too.”_ Sehun uses the expanse of Jongin’s back to write his response the best he can. He hopes it’s understandable.

Jongin hugs him tighter. “This typhoon has been horrible keeping us apart,” he complains like a child, but there’s a sad edge to his voice that prevents Sehun from teasing him.

Sehun considers what to say in the next seconds. Jongin doesn’t seem like he’s letting go any time soon with the tightness of his arms around him. He continues writing questions on his back.

_“Did something happen?”_

Jongin is eerily quiet. Sehun wonders if he should repeat the question.

“I’m leaving in two days.”

Sehun’s eyes flutter close. How could he have forgotten? Jongin is only visiting for the summer, too, just like him.

“I was supposed to stay one more week, but my parents want me back home for something or the other. I’m not sure. I stopped listening when they said I have leave in two days,” Jongin confesses. He sounds so sad Sehun’s heart aches for him.

 _“You need to go back home, eventually,”_ is Sehun’s chosen answer, after a prolonged silence.

 _As do I,_ he wants to add, but stops himself.

“I know that,” Jongin answers, voice clipped. “I’m… I don’t know if I can see you again when I come back next summer.” He pulls away so he can look at Sehun. “Will you be here? Will you come back next year? I’ve always loved this place. Now, I love it much more because I met you here.”

There’s a plea in Jongin’s eyes, a sort of desperation wishing for a positive response. Sehun wants to grant it so, _so_ much. Sadness expands in his chest to a bursting point as he writes on Jongin’s arm, _“I can try.”_

When Jongin smiles, sunny and optimistic, it takes everything for Sehun to not look away in guilt.

They don’t talk about leaving anymore after that conversation. An unspoken understanding passes between them about living in the moment with as much enjoyment as possible. It’s a little cold for bingsu, so they opt for spicy noodles with soup from the shop next door. Sehun reels back in shock from the spiciness. It tastes good, but his lips and tongue are burning. Jongin bursts out laughing, and when Sehun pouts, he stops and tells him how to alleviate the spiciness. He also buys Sehun chocolate wafer sticks to further pacify him.

The sand is too wet for them to waltz on, so they move to the keeper’s quarters. Dancing on a solid floor is easier. Sehun learns enough dancing by now to not step on Jongin’s feet. Usually, they dance while humming the tune of their favorite song. This time around, silence accompanies them as they move around the floor.

Usually, Sehun walks back home alone. This time around, Jongin walks together with him. Sehun wants to tell him he’ll be fine on his own, but maybe his tightened hold on Jongin’s hand is more honest.

They reach the hut Sehun stays at; has called home this entire summer. He invites Jongin inside, a little shy about the cramped space, the knickknacks scattered everywhere by his classmates. Jongin doesn’t seem to mind, smiling as he looks around with sincere interest. Smiling wider when he sees the music box on Sehun’s cot.

The song plays when Sehun opens the lid. Jongin watches the figures whirl and stop. “One day, I’ll tell you what the lyrics mean,” he swears, once again, echoing his promise from before.

Sehun nods, even if he badly wants to tell Jongin it’s impossible; because deep inside, he wants it to happen, too.

Sehun sees him out the door. Jongin has said goodbye; smiled at him. It’s evident he wants to walk away—needs to, for nighttime is approaching. But Jongin is doing nothing to break the hold of their hands. Sehun can’t choose which is more painful: Jongin’s unrelenting grip, or the sob that crawls up his throat when he hears Jongin sniffle; sees the fading of his smile.

“I’ll miss you, Sehun,” Jongin manages to say, despite the shakiness of his voice; the trembling of his lower lip, red-rimmed eyes brimming with more tears. He roughly wipes them away using his free arm; does his best to smile. The shape is like a wobbly crescent moon. “I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s not like we’re not seeing each other again. Next summer, right? I’ll see you here again next summer, right?”

Pressure builds behind Sehun’s eyes, vision blurring. His nose feels stuffy. But he nods yes to Jongin’s question. Nods once again—firmer this time—to reassure himself that somehow, maybe, a miracle will happen next summer. He prays for it in the fierce hope the sea goddess listens and grants him another summer where he can cross over and meet Jongin once again.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

Sehun is one year older the following summer, more mature, still soft at heart. Still holding on to a promise he’s made the year previous; still hoping for the only miracle he’s prayed for thus far to happen.

It doesn’t.

Jongin kept his end of the bargain. Sehun knows. Once the limited number of flora and fauna native to warmer weather has bloomed, and select aquatic animals have began arriving as part of their migration to this corner of the sea, Sehun swims to the surface and edges close to the shore leading to the village of lost voices. He relies on memory since he hasn’t visited after his return the year before; hopes against hope he doesn’t lose his way.

He sees Jongin sitting on the shoreline, gazing out to sea. Sehun watches him from his spot, longing hooking onto his chest and pulling hard; harder. He wishes he can swim closer, show himself, but he knows it’s not possible.

“You know it’s not possible,” Youngho echoes beside him, voice sympathetic like the hand on his shoulder. Sehun doesn’t feel comforted in the slightest but doesn’t shrug it off. “You can’t go to him. Not until the mark fades and the barrier lets you through.”

Swirls of gold akin to painted starlight decorate Sehun’s whole left forearm, shimmering beneath the light of the sun. A mark a merteen receives on their safe return to sea; the symbol of a successful trip to the land above. A mark that will disappear on his adulthood. So long as he bears the mark, so long as the barrier stands in place, Sehun and those like him can’t cross over.

None of these setbacks discourage Sehun in the slightest. Through the pale, shimmery veil of the barrier stretching infinitely across the waters, he watches Jongin from the other side come to the beach every day. His daily presence fills Sehun’s heart with joy, for it means Jongin has never forgotten him; longs to see him, too. He’s not the only one holding on. He’s not the only one who remembers.

Days pass, and Sehun notices the heaviness of Jongin’s steps, the sad set of his shoulders. Though he cannot see him up close to better determine his expression, Sehun pays attention to his body language; discerns Jongin’s misery. It follows Jongin like a dark cloud. It hurts seeing him dejected.

“It’s obvious he’s hoping you’ll show up,” Youngho tells him, when they return underwater after sunset; after Jongin has left in a huff, steps carrying anger—so unlike his previous moods. “That’s impossible right now. I don’t pry into private affairs, but, Sehun… do you really want to see him this way? Waiting for nothing?”

The question haunts Sehun in his dreams; in his continued watching of Jongin from his side of the barrier. Jongin spends less time waiting on the beach, now. Sehun knows by counting. Jongin usually waits for hours. The waiting steadily reduces to minutes in the coming days. Sehun is shocked when Jongin stays for a few seconds on the seventh day. Isn’t too surprised when Jongin doesn’t show up the next day. Or the next one after that. Fourteen days. The remainder of summer.

Sehun doesn’t return to the surface the year he turns nineteen. Not even on the year he turns twenty—the age the golden swirls on his left forearm fade from his skin. The age of an official meradult.

Still, Sehun does not return to the surface, as he is free to do now. He does, however, go somewhere else. 

 

 

☆彡

 

 

The inside of the cave is spacious enough to fit a pod of whales, Sehun notices, once he’s crossed the entrance. Above, countless orbs float around like stars, providing ample lighting for everything to be seen. Some drift close to Sehun, as if curious of his presence in their master’s dwelling. One bumps into Sehun’s shoulder, the impact nonexistent from its surprising softness. The orbs trail after him as he ventures in farther, parting for him and scattering, staying out of his way. Cleared spaces reveal shelves carved in the cave walls; bottles of various sizes standing undisturbed. Majority contain colored liquid; others, plants common and unknown. Select few house live specimens—curious, watching. Waiting.

Sehun takes in his surroundings, the various tools awaiting usage. The cave doesn’t look like the haunted, forbidden abode of a sea witch; of the second most powerful figure of authority in the sea. Dark and dreary is her residence, the rumors claim. The light orbs and threads of moonlight plunging through tiny holes from the ceiling show the complete opposite.

Old and wizened does the sea witch look, word of mouth passes around. The visage of youth is a more fitting description, Sehun discovers, when a young merchild glides past him, so sudden and silent he’s never sensed her presence. Long, flowing hair a deep violet it looks almost black; shiny tail magenta and fins of lilac. In her arms, a baby otter, sound asleep. She sits on an open cockle shell chair, eyes locking in on Sehun.

Eyes that convey the amount of knowledge and wisdom possessed by someone who’s lived for more than a thousand years.

“You have come here for a purpose.” The sea witch’s voice is like a child’s, sweet and innocent, but carries a sage-like edge. “This has been your decision from the day you returned. The day you left the human boy you’ve befriended, and come to adore.”

Stunned, Sehun nods wide-eyed.

The sea witch’s smile grows, kind and understanding. The cauldron closest to her lights up, its calm waters coming to a boil. “Many before you have come to me completely besotted by the land above; by someone they’ve met, and so the sadness of parting became unendurable. Do I say aloud the wish in your heart, or do you want to surprise me by wishing for something else?”

Sehun used the last two years of his adolescence deliberating what he’ll do upon touching adulthood. The wish in his heart roars to life louder than before, impatient to be recognized and set free. Become reality. This is what he wants. Always wanted. Now within his grasp, Sehun wants this wish granted more than ever.

He meets the sea witch’s gaze and, with full determination, tells her, “I have come here to find a way to be human. I want to see him again.”

The sea witch’s lips curve into a smile, enhancing her youthful features. “I have thought so.”

Like a choreographed symphony she’s memorized by heart, she points at different jars and bottles from the surrounding shelves. The summoned items dart toward the boiling cauldron and hover above, lids and caps screwing open, contents pouring. The water never stays one color for long but stays consistently boiling. Once it simmers down, the water settles on the color of melted pearls. A slim, empty bottle dips down and fills itself with the liquid, seals itself shut, and coasts right into the sea witch’s waiting hand. The liquid sparkles against the lights like captured moonlight.

“This is the potion merpeople in despair have sought me out for.” The sea witch releases the bottle. It stays suspended in place. “Drinking this on first light will give you the legs needed as a land dweller in the next ten years. The difference between your transformation then and now is the preservation of your voice. You will be able to communicate with humans using words and not rely on body language or written script anymore. The power of your voice will be weakened, however. It will take effect on living things if used above, but it won’t be as powerful compared to its usage in your true form.”

Sehun seldom used the power of his voice on fellow merteens and other forms of marine life. The rare times he’s used it have been for self-serving, juvenile purposes in his childhood, such as avoiding chores or weave work. He admits to the sea witch he may not use it on land—on humans—for as long as he walks among them.

Light sparks before Sehun’s eyes, and a parchment unrolls itself, revealing lines of text. A contract, Sehun realizes, two paragraphs in. He reads everything slowly and carefully, committing to memory the conditions he’s required to accept and comply with that come with the potion. The first two conditions they’ve discussed already. The next four he can observe and follow.

The seventh condition stands out the most in the list. Sehun reads the words over again. Separately, they make sense; together, disheartening. He gnaws on his bottom lip. Hesitates.

The sea witch must’ve seen through him because she explains, “Unlike the fairy tales spun about my kind, there is no deceit, no secret loophole I will use against you. I lay out all the rules, benefits, and consequences of my potions. It is your decision whether or not you accept them. If yes, you are free to take this potion after signing your name. If no, I cannot offer anything else, and our conversation stops here.”

Sehun’s waited so long for this opportunity. His mind hasn’t changed. Signing his name means no turning back; a willingness to face repercussions on the tenth-year mark. He takes the quill beside the parchment, reads the contract one last time. Poises the quill above the line. Signs.

The parchment flashes and disappears in a poof of smoke. In exchange, the sea witch nudges the potion bottle Sehun’s way with her knuckles. She watches him curl his fingers around the bottle, as if waiting for him to change his mind on the last second.

Sehun doesn’t. The moment he held the bottle, he knows there’s no turning back. He’s doing this for Jongin. He’s doing this for himself. For memories he can’t forget. For a mutual emotion between them he’s willing to nurture into something bigger; more. An unforgettable summer that’s changed him, given things he didn’t know he wanted until he’s had a taste of them.

“You’ve signed the contract, so I expect payment of equal value to the potion,” the sea witch tells him, voice cutting through his thoughts. “The third condition states so.”

“I am aware,” Sehun replies. “You require my tail as payment. I shall give it to you. It’s not easy parting with my tail, if I’m being honest, for I believe it is the most beautiful part of my body.”

Countless times Sehun has received direct praises and appreciative sighs; seen the captivated and envious looks from multiple species. His tail has become the standard, from its vivid turquoise and shiny scales; the way it sparkles under the sun. In turn, Sehun keeps his tail as clean and smooth as possible, using only the finest sea plants to preserve and enhance its beauty. He takes pride in the knowledge his tail is one of its kind. Blessed by the sea goddess herself, the older generation mentioned. The comment stayed with him since.

“I concur,” the sea witch says. “Vanity is not the reason why I want it as payment, however. The mermen and mermaids who wanted legs paid for their transformation potions with their tails. A body part for a body part. A suitable, equal exchange.”

A thought crosses Sehun’s mind in that instant. “What happens after my time as human is over?”

A solemn expression appears on the sea witch’s face. “Everything will go back to the way it was. A transformation is not meant to be permanent. You return to your original form, or change. The fourth condition, as you recall.”

An ominous feeling slowly sweeps over Sehun. “Have there been others who transformed back after ten years and could not accept their fate?”

The solemnity on the sea witch’s face amplifies. “They could not withstand the weight of their broken hearts and turned to sea foam.”

Something clicks in Sehun’s mind, however belated. He stares at the floating lights once more, now noticing they shed their white lights to reveal different spheres of color: swirls of orange specked with gold, glossy cerulean and white stripes, the fierce reds and purples of a sunset in uneven amounts. Innumerable orbs, unique combinations of colors. Sehun meets the knowing look of the sea witch; shivers as he says what’s on his mind:

“These colorful lights… they’re very beautiful. They must have looked more beautiful as tails before their owners became sea foam.”

“Yes,” the sea witch says, a sad-looking smile gracing her features, now. “Yes, they definitely were.”

 

 

☆彡

 

 

Between Sehun’s hands is a magical, transparent globe. Stored inside is his precious music box. Before embarking on their journey home three years ago, they were granted one globe each to store and preserve the belongings they can’t bear part with but face disintegration if taken underwater. For an entire year since his return, Sehun has played the music box a little at a time, never tiring of the melody; never forgetting how he and Jongin danced, once upon a summer.

Three years later, twenty and faith renewed, Sehun packs the magical globe along with other essentials in his seaweed rucksack.

“Are you sure about this?” his grandmother asks. She’s helping him pack; asked the question so many times he’s stopped counting. He doesn’t mind, understands she’s concerned; making sure his entire mind and heart is fully committed to the decision.

“Yes.” Sehun smiles in thanks and closes his rucksack. His gaze sweeps around his corner of the cave, a little saddened by its now-bare state. He doesn’t like the idea of his grandmother living alone for ten years, but she’s also the most understanding mermaid he’s known in his life. The most encouraging, too, in her gentle persuasion of following what his heart desires, even if it means a decade-long separation.

Her selflessness brings to tears to Sehun’s eyes. He blinks several times to ease them of the pressure. If his grandmother notices, she doesn’t mention anything.

His grandmother swims with him halfway to the surface. She presses the sweetest of kisses to his forehead and cheeks; assures him she’ll be waiting for his return, anticipate Youngho’s visits to their cave. A day before his big decision, Sehun told Youngho to check on his grandmother often; playfully threatened to pick at his scales if she was in poor condition on his return. Youngho playfully cowered in return but gave his word.

It’s bittersweet, swimming ahead and leaving his grandmother behind. Sehun doesn’t look back; wills himself to do anything but, scared he may hesitate and return in no time. The thought of Jongin crosses his mind; fuels him to go on, swim far, farther.

Sehun surfaces. Angry waves roll him from side to side, catching him by surprise. He shields his eyes from the flashes of lightning splitting the twilight sky in two; flinches at the rumbles of thunder. Thick sheets of icy rain, an impenetrable curtain obscuring his vision. The wind howls, the storm rages. Sehun dives back underwater and swims hard and frantic; is heaved and tossed in the rise and swell of the roiling waters. He considers dissolving the storm using a song, but he doesn’t have the luxury of time. Sunrise is fast approaching. The potion requires immediate consumption.

The storm finally ends after an indeterminate amount of time. Sehun swims up, stops at a safe distance in front of the barrier. He pulls out the bottle from his rucksack, relieved the potion hasn’t spilled. He takes a whiff. It smells faintly of the sweets the village children used to share with him from three years ago.

The darkened skies give way for the coming morning, the sun beginning to rise above the horizon. When the first shaft of sunlight touches the sea, Sehun drains the potion. It’s not as sweet as it smells; nearly gags in shock, but doesn’t waste a drop. He waits for something to happen; doesn’t feel any significant changes in his body. He touches the barrier, expecting a thick, solid surface.

His hand passes through.

Astonished he’s breached the barrier without incident, Sehun takes one deep breath for courage and crosses.

He’s not sure how he ends up washed ashore when he rouses. He doesn’t even remember passing out. He squints against the sunlight, now hanging high up in the sky. He pulls himself upright; racks his mind for clues of what might have happened. The barrier sliding over him, allowing passage. A sharp pain from the waist down, like his tail is being split open; apart.

Sehun now sees his legs are back. He can’t stop touching them, amazed, overjoyed; like a long-lost friend he’s reunited with. Perhaps they are—he’ll be using them for the next ten years. Quickly he dresses in the clothing he’s brought with him. They barely fit, to his utter shock. The shirt is a little too tight stretching across his chest. The pants don’t cover his ankles anymore. He hasn’t realized how much he’s grown over the years, the change startling in his human form.

He takes a good look at his surroundings while reacquainting himself with the art of walking like a human. His coordination isn’t as bad as he fears, muscle memory kicking in to help. The farther he walks inland, the stronger his suspicion he’s not in the fishing village. The storm must’ve taken him somewhere else. The probability of it happening is high, making him nervous.

The biggest giveaway is the absence of the lighthouse at the end of the village.

So is the confusion painting the faces of the people he approaches and asks if he’s in the village of lost voices.

Some of them give him odd looks. If he’s lucky, they’ll tell him they have no idea what he’s talking about. A select few are more cross, driving him away with rude words and angry insults.

It’s hopeless, Sehun thinks, meandering without aim in this unknown village. First day as human, and he’s already in trouble. Despite the accumulated knowledge of the language and experiences from three summers ago, he doubts those will suffice for his survival in the next ten years.

He notices the boats, so he assumes he’s in another fishing village. Near or far from the village he’s stayed at before, he doesn’t know. Exhaustion settles in his bones as the day nears its end. Sehun seeks refuge in a gazebo situated at the village fringe overlooking the sea. Reds and oranges are reflected on the calm surface of the water, similar in color to the leaves of trees he’s passed. The arrival of autumn.

A breeze blows in, caressing the skin of his arms and legs. He’ll most probably spend the night outdoors. He doesn’t have money on him, having foolishly spent everything in the past. Serenading a villager into providing shelter for the night tempts him, but he changes his mind. He’s not brave enough to deceive innocent people.

Another breeze, and this time, Sehun shivers. He sits and leans back against the sturdy pillar, hugging his knees and wishing it won’t be too cold tonight. Withstanding freezing temperatures underwater is a cinch, though his newly-transformed body requires adjusting to land-dweller cold. His stomach growls, a reminder he hasn’t eaten at all today. Again, the issue goes back to the lack of money. He wonders what he can do to calm his stomach.

He hears something drop to the ground. Outside the gazebo, potatoes are rolling out on the dirt path in scattered directions. An old woman tries in vain to retrieve the potatoes closest to her reach. Her knees must be giving her trouble—Sehun catches a grimace as she bends. She’s clutching a bag with a broken strap, the cause of the fallen potatoes. Sehun jumps in to help her at once. He gathers every stray potato and secures them in his seaweed rucksack; offers to walk the old woman home.

“Thank you so much, young man! I wouldn’t have known what to do if it wasn’t for you!” the old woman gushed. Her house is bigger than the hut Sehun has stayed and lived in before. A gate leading to a courtyard, the house built with wood. The roofs are tiled; a tool shed to the side. It seems too big a house for one person to live in, but it’s not Sehun’s business to pry.

“It’s my pleasure to help,” Sehun says. He feels guilty hoping this isn’t the end of their conversation, but he also knows not to extend his stay without permission. Seeing the old woman is fine, now, he bows and walks away.

“Wait!” she calls out. Sehun spins around, confused. “You don’t have a place to stay, do you?”

Heat skims his cheeks, feeling exposed. Vulnerable. “I’ll be okay, ma’am,” he tells her; does his best to sound reassuring but isn’t sure if it’s convincing.

The old woman clucks her tongue, hands planted on her hips. “No, you won’t. You don’t look like you’re from around here. The closest inn to the village is two hours away.” A pause. “You can stay with me.”

“Really?” Sehun dislikes how happy he sounds, or how he instantly perks up at the offer; but he can’t choose to be picky now, of all times. He’s just relieved a human such as her has shown sympathy.

The old woman nods. “It gets lonely around here sometimes since I live alone. I wouldn’t mind some company. Now, come; I’ll show you to the bathroom so you can wash up. Your poor feet must be tired and sore from walking all day. I’m sure you’re hungry, as well.”

Sehun doesn’t hold back smiling anymore and retraces his footsteps to the old woman; into the house.

Aunt Booja has been living on her own for years in this village, Sehun learns. She tells him a little about herself during dinner: widow, four children, grandchildren more than she can count with both hands. She only sees her family during special holidays or reunions. Sometimes not at all for an entire year. Sehun’s presence obviously delights her in the way she lets him taste each dish on the table; how wide her smiles become when he praises the food.

Aunt Booja asks him questions: how old he is, where he’s from, does he know anyone in the next village, perhaps? Sehun answers the first one fast. He stays silent on the second. Will she believe him if she finds out he comes from the sea? So he answers the third, telling her honestly he doesn’t. Then, he asks her a question of his own.

“Do you know of a village whose people have no voices, or lost them?”

Aunt Booja blinks at him, confusion apparent on her face. Sehun loses hope the longer she stays silent.

“I’ve heard about it before,” Aunt Booja says, after a long moment. Sehun’s optimism spikes. “It’s quite far from here. If I remember right, it takes almost an entire day of travel to reach.” She snaps her fingers upon remembering something. “Right! I have a high school friend who married a fisherman from that village.”

Sehun’s hope soars. “Can you get in touch with your friend? I need to go to that village.”

Aunt Booja seems shocked by his sudden show of enthusiasm. Her expression changes to one of apology for what she says next. “I haven’t heard from my friend in so many years. In her last letter, she told me she’s moving out of the country. We lost communication after. I’m sorry.” A beat of silence, and then: “If it’s not too nosy, why do you want to go to that village?”

“I want to find someone,” Sehun tells her. In his mind, the image of a laughing Jongin flashes. “That person has been waiting for me to come back. It’s time I return to him.”

 

 

☆彡

 

 

After spending the night, Sehun rises early the next day, apprehension hovering above him like a cloud. Any moment, and Aunt Booja may show him out. She may have displayed kindness the night previous, but it remains to be seen how long her hospitality will last.

Aunt Booja doesn’t mention anything about leaving during breakfast, setting Sehun on edge. When she does ask a question, it’s a request of helping her with the house chores. She’s old, her knees are aching, and his assistance will significantly reduce the time spent on cleaning.

Sehun fails the task, spectacularly. He braces himself for Aunt Booja’s anger or disappointment, but all she does is laugh at his clumsiness—not mean-spirited, from the sound of it—and demonstrates how it’s done.

Every day, Sehun learns new tricks and techniques about housekeeping. Every day, Sehun acquires a new survival skill set or two. Soon, he can man the kitchen without incident; prepares meals for him and Aunt Booja, sometimes experiments by mixing and matching ingredients and condiments. Soon, he’s able to clean the entire house by himself, spotless floors and dustless surfaces impressing Aunt Booja and friends who come over for afternoon tea.

Everyday sails past in a tranquil haze. Sehun learns to venture out of Aunt Booja’s house and make friends. Two who have grown close to him are Wonho and Bumkyu, the so-called village mischief-makers who allegedly stir trouble day in and day out (Sehun learns much later they are exaggerated rumors). The first meeting is unconventional, if comical: Wonho and Bumkyu running away from a rabid dog, dashing past Sehun who’s returning from the market. Sehun standing in the way of the dog, crouching to one knee. He croons until the dog slows, calms; follows orders to go home, not attack anyone again. The next day, Wonho and Bumkyu seek him out, gifts him a basket of chicken eggs and a sack of potatoes. Tokens of gratitude. The budding of friendship.

The villagers become welcoming of him, too, more generous now with their smiles and greetings. The elderly waves him over for a game of _yutnori_ if they need an extra player. More often he plays _gonggi_ with the children and wins. Sehun learns of everyone’s names through conversations; remembers their faces, what they do, where they live. He can now navigate the village with ease, without the threat of losing his way. Neighboring villages, as well, when he travels out in search of produce not available in their market.

“Sehun! Where have you been?” Aunt Booja’s concerned voice is the first thing that greets him on his return, one late afternoon.

Sehun shows the basket of persimmons he’s carrying. “They had a sale of persimmons in the next village. The persimmons were so ripe! I wanted to buy everything and share it with everyone.” He looks over to the empty spot next to the tool shed. “It’s too bad the old persimmon tree died. We wouldn’t need to buy persimmons if it still lived.”

“Quite right, my child. I’ve planted another one in its place. Let’s wait for it to grow.” Aunt Booja links arms with him on their walk inside. “Leave the persimmons in the kitchen and wash up. We’ll have dinner soon. _Sundubu jjigae_ , your favorite.”

Later that night, after locking the gate and securing the doors, Sehun tears off a page from the living room calendar and realizes—with fondness, with a smile on his face—it’s been a year since Aunt Booja took him in; since the fear of being driven away has vanished; since he’s found a place to call home.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

Sehun’s finished cleaning the house when a guest arrives: Aunt Youngran, a friend of Aunt Booja who lives three houses down. She’s carrying a big bag; asks if Aunt Booja is home.

Aunt Booja takes one look at the bag before asking, in a rather clipped tone, “Who is it this time?”

“My teenage granddaughter living in Seoul is celebrating her birthday soon. She was so envious of the _hanbok_ I wore on her mother’s birthday party she begged me to have it. She didn’t care it wasn’t her size! So, I promised I’d give her one as a present.” Aunt Youngran passes the bag to Aunt Booja. The knowing smile insinuates plenty of secret meanings. “Hanbok quality is very poor or subpar nowadays. You’re the only person I trust, Booja.”

Aunt Booja takes out the fabrics and spreads them on the mat, examines each with a keenness Sehun has never before witnessed. He fetches her glasses so she can better see the materials as per her request. Silence reigns for a few moments, which she breaks. “When is her birthday? Teenagers these days don’t normally ask for a hanbok or wear it in this day and age.”

Conversation flows and halts when Aunt Youngran leaves. Aunt Booja gathers the fabrics in her arms and proceeds to the room at the end of the hall. Although he’s wondered about its contents, Sehun never set foot inside, not even for cleaning. It feels intrusive since Aunt Booja seldom enters it, too.

The sun pours through the windows after Aunt Booja slides them open. The room is expansive but sparse of decoration. Three framed photos hang on the left wall; to the right, a tall, wooden closet and a matching chest of drawers. In one of them, Aunt Booja procures a large antique box. On its lid are hand-painted flowers in ornate patterns, its colors fading with age.

Sehun peers inside the open box. He doesn’t recognize any of these items. Thin, stick-like objects almost the length of his finger with pointed ends and gleamed silver. When he holds one up, Aunt Booja cautions him right away to be careful or he’ll prick himself.

This is his introduction to the needle, as well as the other sewing materials Aunt Booja shows him. A thimble protects his fingertips from the needle. Threads are the tiny rolls of colored string. Measuring tape, pins and cushions, scissors with different functions. Aunt Booja teaches him an object’s purpose every time she takes it out of the box. Sehun listens with rapt attention, recites their names numerous times to remember; easily identify them in the future if needed.

Aunt Booja looks amused by his eagerness. “Why does everything fascinate you? Have you never seen a sewing kit before?”

“I have no knowledge of these objects,” Sehun admits. “Will you teach me more about them? I want to know their names, what they do, how to use them.”

Aunt Booja’s smile grows but grants his request. If she finds anything odd about Sehun’s words and actions, she doesn’t point it out.

Aunt Booja checks the set of numbers scrawled on a paper Aunt Youngran gave her; draws patterns on the fabrics and cuts them with the graceful precision of an expert. The floor becomes a colorful canvas of leftover fabrics in various shapes. She fashions the cut fabrics into a bodice with long sleeves. A longer piece of fabric is molded around the chest of a headless, armless stump she calls a mannequin and fastens it in place. Sehun helps her as much as he’s able; runs into mishaps if he confuses one item for another. Sewing bears little resemblance to the weaving he’s mastered under his grandmother’s tutelage. The longer he watches, the stronger his determination to study this art.

Aunt Booja works on the hanbok for days on end, only stopping to bathe, eat, or sleep. Sometimes she doesn’t. Sehun will head to the kitchen for a glass of water in the middle of the night and see light coming from the doors of Aunt Booja’s sewing room. He brews Aunt Booja a cup of tea and brings her a blanket to keep warm if it’s cold. If he finds her fallen asleep, slumped over the low table and glasses askew, he doesn’t have the heart to wake her. Instead, Sehun carries Aunt Booja to her room where he’s laid out the mattress and tucks her in.

The once shapeless fabrics start taking a more concrete form. Once Aunt Booja sews the last stitch in place, she announces she’s done.

Dressed on the mannequin is the very first hanbok Sehun sees in his life. A _jeogori_ in the coolest and lightest of greens, neckband and cuffs sharing an identical flower-patterned fabric. On the _gil_ ’s front left side, embroidered plum blossoms. A long, flowy _chima_ the color of newly-sprouted cherry blossoms that rustles when moved. The fruits of Aunt Booja’s labor.

Aunt Booja beats the small of her back with a fist; regards the hanbok with a satisfied smile.

And for good reason, Sehun thinks, reeling still from the splendor of her creation.

Aunt Youngran agrees, too, hurrying over as soon as Sehun delivers the good news. Her mouth slackens seeing the hanbok, gushing over its beauty; how perfect it looks. How her granddaughter will love it, for sure. She pounces on Aunt Booja, hugging her tight, showers her with endless thanks and praise. Sehun has never seen Aunt Booja so shy and red-faced by openly-displayed affection.

Seven days later, Aunt Youngran shows Aunt Booja pictures of her granddaughter wearing the hanbok in varying poses indoors and outdoors. Aunt Booja looks thrilled at the positive response; adamantly refuses payment for her services when Aunt Youngran hands her an envelope.

“Don’t be so stubborn!” Aunt Youngran chides, shoving the envelope into her hand. “A high-quality hanbok deserves payment, Booja! I don’t mind paying for it. No, no, I’m not listening to your complaints! Times are hard lately. Take it. I insist.”

“Ah, that Youngran.” Aunt Booja sighs out the words; watches her walk off in triumph through narrowed eyes. The envelope, though crumpled and creased from their push-pull game, stays in her hand. “Many times I’ve told her she needn’t do this. Why does she never listen?” She shakes her head, the faint smile playing on her lips opposite of her words.

Sehun glances at the now-bare mannequin to Aunt Booja. Recalls the complete trust Aunt Youngran placed in her to sew a hanbok for her beloved granddaughter. Aunt Booja’s painstaking efforts, her thoroughness and attention to detail. Recalls select incidents during his first seven days living here last year when people sought out Aunt Booja, assorted garments in hand, requesting she replicate the clothes on the reference pictures they’ve brought.

“Are you a tailor?”

The question slips without Sehun realizing it. Often he’s wondered what Aunt Booja does for a living, how she can afford daily expenses for two. Vegetables and fruits aren’t a problem—they grow their own in a tiny garden. Money is spent more on meat (which he loves), seafood (which he avoids), and other necessities. Sewing clothes for survival is his best guess.

Turns out he’s right since Aunt Booja nods; tells him the truth.

Born and raised in this village to a family of tailors, perhaps it has been her destiny to be one, too. Among her siblings, Aunt Booja showed the most interest, learned the quickest, and developed the skill required of one. Her sewing is unmatched, her hanbok exceptional it garnered fame in and out of the village. Dreaming big, Aunt Booja moved to the city and opened a hanbok shop. Fortune favored her, the shop flourishing and securing a modest amount of loyal customers. Met her then-husband there, as well. Rapidly-changing times and wishing to focus on raising her growing family left no choice but to close shop and return to the village. She continued sewing to get by; used her earnings and her husband’s to send their children to school. Aging and the demanding labor of sewing a hanbok forced her to stop. Now, she is more discerning of which sewing projects to accept in consideration of her health.

“Can you teach me?” Sehun asks, over dinner that same night. At Aunt Booja’s surprised face, he explains, “I want to learn how to sew beautiful things.”

Surprise fading, Aunt Booja chuckles. “My dear, the hanbok is not the only beautiful thing in the world.”

“So you’ll teach me?” Sehun asks, optimistic about the outcome he can’t help smiling. “Please? Please? I promise to work hard. I won’t disappoint you. The hanbok you sewed is so beautiful I want to try making one.”

Aunt Booja sends him an amused look while chewing on a pickled radish.

The next day, after Sehun finishes his chores, Aunt Booja calls him to the sewing room. She sits him down in front of her and hands over a small piece of cloth square in size. Draped on her lap is an identical cloth. Aunt Booja plucks a needle from the cushion. Sehun accepts. She shows him how to thread a needle. Sehun takes a while before he perfects it. Aunt Booja is patient with him throughout.

“If you want to learn how to make a hanbok, you must learn the basics first.”

Aunt Booja teaches him how to sew; teaches him until his skills are passable, decent, outstanding. Sehun absorbs the knowledge imparted to him with diligence and a speed that amazes Aunt Booja to no end. He works hard until he’s improved; gains Aunt Booja’s approval and tries his hand at sewing small things. Bigger things.

She acquaints him with the hanbok, teaches him its parts, its history. He acquaints himself with the difficulties posed by wrong measurements, misreading sewing patterns, frustrating alterations. The cramping of hands, aching of wrists, and tiredness of fingers after a long day of sewing.

By the time he’s created his very first hanbok without a single hitch, his second year living as a human has passed.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

It’s not that Sehun has forgotten his purpose for trading his tail for legs; for wanting to live as a human when he can spend his days traversing the boundless blue waters. Not a day goes by he isn’t reminded of sparkling laughter from the tinkling wind chimes on a cool spring day; of bicycle lessons and succeeding in them during his travels to neighboring villages on impulse rides with Wonho and Bumkyu. Waltzes on beaches on days he longs for swims in the sea and builds castles on the sand. Cheek kisses that never fail to send his heart aflutter whenever he plays with the neighbor’s puppies, climbing into his lap to see which one can lick his face first and the fastest.

It’s impossible to forget his purpose when his heart cries out for the water and waves from the same place he’s left his heart all those years ago. For the boy he’s never forgotten, not once. A timeworn memory he should be, now, though his remembrances shine the brightest when summer comes around.

Sehun practiced saying his name since retrieving his voice. He savors the way his tongue curls around the syllables; says it a thousand times without tiring of the sound. He can’t predict the future, but he’s sure it will be the first thing he’ll say when they meet again.

And after nights and nights of endless yearning, with directions from a well-informed, traveling farmer and friends and money, Sehun finally returns to where it all began.

Nostalgia hits him with the force of a giant, crashing wave. Setting foot in the village of lost voices once again is like going back to the start, albeit years have passed. Everything looks the same, but doesn’t. A change has occurred, but Sehun isn’t sure what yet.

And then he notices: the old lighthouse is gone. Where it once stood now remains a huge plot of land, no remnants and traces of the lighthouse he used to climb and explore. The keeper’s quarters where he’s found his special music box. The spiral, rickety staircase and its two-hundred steps leading him to the top, offering a breathtaking view of the village and the sea. To Jongin, who looked as surprised as he’d felt on their fateful meeting.

“This is a pretty small village,” Wonho comments from behind. Always observant, this friend of his. He inspects the place with keen eyes, taking in its wonders. “What are we doing in this fishing village, Sehun? Are we looking for someone?”

“I am,” Sehun confirms. “I’m hoping he’s here.”

To his right, Bumkyu speaks up. “A friend? This village looks smaller than ours. Surely, he should’ve seen us by now? We do stick out as outsiders.”

“I’ve heard weird rumors about this village,” Wonho says, as they retrace their path back to the village dwellings. “There are claims something magical happens here every summer. Apparently, the sea washes people ashore, but they can’t speak; thus, the village of lost voices.”

Sehun doesn’t respond and opts to just listen. Bumkyu laughs, an amused sound.

“Is that what you waste your time on in the internet?” Bumkyu playfully nudges Wonho in the ribs.

“Look, I’m not saying I spent my winter reading up on urban and rural myths, but it becomes thrilling the more you dig up stuff,” Wonho comments. “They say the people washed up here aren’t really human. So, what are they?” He pauses on purpose for dramatic effect. “That’s right: they’re _not_ human. They are, in fact, merpeople.”

Sehun wills himself not to say anything. Bumkyu snorts and advises Wonho to stop filling their heads with nonsense.

The straw huts look exactly the same as Sehun remembers. The villagers are still friendly with their polite smiles and inquiries. Sehun wonders if anyone will single him out; divulge his secret to Wonho and Bumkyu. Unlike the first time, there is no consequence to revealing he isn’t a real human.

Nobody shows recognition. Sehun’s partially relieved and, perhaps, a little sad.

His luck peaks on their visit to the old bingsu shop.

The chocolate bingsu’s taste hasn’t changed. Immense pleasure fills Sehun as he scoops a mouthful, icy sweetness melting on his tongue. He reserves the wafer sticks for last; munches on them like a happy child rewarded for his good deeds. Bumkyu and Wonho are enjoying theirs, too.

The shop owner recognizes him, much to his surprise. One accidental look across the room for their gazes to lock, and then the shop owner is approaching him. Sehun meets him partway. He greets Sehun warmly, like the years hadn’t gone by. The shop owner hugs him with the tenderness of a father to a son. Sehun’s heart swells with happiness.

“You’ve grown so much! So tall like a bamboo!” the shop owner exclaims, taking in his appearance with approving eyes. “You’ve become quite handsome, too.”

Sehun smiles, shy but glad for the praise. “It’s good to see you again, uncle. The chocolate bingsu is still delicious. I like it very much.”

The shop owner laughs a hearty laugh. “That’s good to hear! I see you’re with friends.” He glances over to their table. Brief introductions are made. “What about that boy you used to come with here? Do you keep in touch?”

Sehun knows an opportunity when it’s presented. “Has he come here in the past years? I’d like to get in touch with him, but I don’t know how or where…”

“I haven’t seen him in a really long time,” the shop owner admits, a contemplative frown setting on his features. “The last time he came here was around five years ago. He was by himself, though. He ordered the chocolate bingsu but never ate it. He only cried into his bowl and let the entire thing melt. Poor lad—I thought for sure you had a big fight. He looked so sad sobbing by himself.”

Sehun imagines Jongin sitting at their usual table, tears sliding down his cheeks and pondering over his whereabouts. Why he’s not showing up. The sad image reaches into his chest and squeezes his heart.

“I don’t know much about him, to be honest,” the shop owner says, when Sehun asks for clues of how or where to find Jongin. “I only know as much as the other villagers. He’s not from here, that’s for sure.” A beat of silence passes. His face brightens all of a sudden. “No, wait a moment. I remember him and his aunt coming here, once. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard a little of their discussion. Her aunt asked him about his life in Seoul.” He claps his hands together the more he remembers. “Right, right! I think there was a well-known rumor he came from Seoul.”

Seoul. Sehun brands the name in his mind; repeats it to himself over and over. Seoul seems like such a faraway place; another world entirely. He’s heard of the place from people in the market who have relatives living there. He’s seen glimpses of what life is like in that city from the dramas and commercials playing on the television; from Aunt Booja’s experiences as a hanbok shop owner, to fill the silence of sewing together.

Seoul is where Jongin lives. Seoul is where he may find Jongin.

Seoul is where Sehun intends to search next.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

“Absolutely not.”

Aunt Booja’s opposition shocks him.

“Seoul is a big place, Sehun. It will be impossible to find your friend there in a single day. Dishonest people might take advantage of you, and I worry because you’re too softhearted.”

Although she means to come off stern, a gentleness prevails in the measured softness of her voice. Aunt Booja never scolds him unless it’s out of concern—love, even, perhaps.

“I can never find him if I stay here. I need to go to Seoul and end his waiting,” Sehun tells her, calmly, firmly.

Outside, rain pounds down to the ground in harsh sheets; beats against the roof, potted plants and bushes, the jars of various sauces. Cool air blows in through the living room’s open doors, easing the afternoon humidity. Aunt Booja’s silence is disconcerting, albeit the lack of an angry vibe about her. Sehun watches the skies wash the earth. Waits and hopes for a positive response.

“Is this person very important to you?” Aunt Booja sips her tea without looking at him.

Sehun nods, even if she doesn’t see. “He’s very important to me. I need to find him. If Seoul is where I’ll find him, then I should go and see for myself rather than waiting for the answers to fall into my hands.” A thought rushes to the forefront of his mind, surprised he hasn’t thought of it earlier. Why Aunt Booja is behaving this way. “Aunt Booja, just because I’m going to Seoul doesn’t mean I’m abandoning you.”

The stunned look on Aunt Booja’s face confirms his suspicion.

Guilt stabs him sharp and swift. In his impatience to embark on a journey, Sehun may have reminded her of the children who left her and the village behind to seek their own futures. The children she scarcely hears from, or don’t have plenty of time to call her aside from rushed greetings on birthdays and holidays, if they remember at all. The children she weeps for in the privacy of her room during the longest hours of the night, Sehun hearing her muffled cries when he comes from the kitchen for a glass of water.

In his excitement upon finding a lead to Jongin, how can Sehun forget about Aunt Booja’s pain and loneliness?

Sehun quickly amends his blunder. “Come with me to Seoul, Aunt Booja. I don’t know what awaits me there, or if I’ll get answers. I know for sure it’ll be less lonely than going by myself. I asked Wonho and Bumkyu to come with me. They agreed. The more, the merrier, don’t you think? Oh, they told me everything is much more expensive there, so I’ll work extra hard to earn money! I’ll sew and sell hanboks! I’ll sew all day if needed. It might be that I’m asking too much and acting selfish after everything, and I deeply appreciate all you’ve done, but I’ve decided to go to Seoul.”

Aunt Booja remains silent, finishing the rest of her tea. Sehun waits patiently for a response. The rain continues falling outside, filling in for the silence.

“I can never win against you, can’t I?” A tiny smile graces Aunt Booja’s lips.

“I’ve been told I’m very hard to resist,” Sehun jokes, taking her answer as a good sign.

“Many times I’ve wondered why we crossed paths three years ago,” Aunt Booja muses aloud, tone nostalgic. She stares out into the courtyard. A long moment passes before she speaks again. This time, she looks at Sehun. “I may not know your life story, but I won’t hold you back from searching for answers. Go to Seoul. Look for him. Don’t stop until you find him.”

Sehun whoops in joy and does a little dance around Aunt Booja. He hugs her around the shoulders in a show of gratitude; smiles at the laughter he manages to coax out. “I meant what I said when I asked you to come with me, Aunt Booja. You can’t say no to me.”

“Why? So I can babysit you?” Aunt Booja teases. More laughter. She calms, then continues. “If you are determined in your purpose, you should prepare yourself for challenges and setbacks. Our village is nothing like Seoul. That itself should serve as a warning.”

More discussions are held. Plans are finalized. Soon, they’re packing their belongings and saying goodbyes to the villagers who came to see them off. Aunt Booja sheds some tears; Aunt Youngran is full-on sobbing. So many dispensing advice that Sehun can’t catch all of them: eat well, don’t catch a cold, take care of each other, be vigilant and wary of bad people.

Among these, one stands out the most: “don’t forget us.”

Sehun doubts he will; vows he won’t. His heart twinges having to leave behind familiar faces; the house he’s lived in for three years and called home; the warmth of a tight-knit community who’s come to accept him as one of their own. A similar feeling when he left his own grandmother behind for the human world. From time to time he wonders if she’s doing well; if Youngho is checking up on her, as promised. Nightly he prays to the sea goddess for her good health and happiness.

Seoul is everything the dramas and commercials have shown Sehun: massive, fast paced, rows and rows of sky-high buildings and magnificent architecture, crowded streets. People move quick and mostly mind their own business. They’ve had run-ins with some rude people, unfortunately. Wonho wanted to beat up some punks trying to pick a fight with him. Sehun and Bumkyu drag him away before any real trouble can start.

Thanks to overdue favors from friends, Aunt Booja is able to secure them a tiny apartment for cheap rent. The cramped space disallows room to move as they please, and it’s a never-ending challenge finding a comfortable position to sleep on the floor. Light bulbs flicker on and off, needing replacement. Faulty faucets testing their patience more times than it worked. Bugs crawling out from a crack in the ceiling, dropping on Sehun’s pillow and scaring him witless. Windows opening by themselves in the late of night due to a broken lock. The apartment is a far cry from the comfort of Aunt Booja’s house, but Sehun learns to put up with the drastic conditions.

They work together finishing hanbok commissions Aunt Booja receives from friends. Wonho’s specialty lies in embroidery and _maedup_ , having learned from his grandmother at a young age. Bumkyu can sew but works his magic best with a sewing machine. By himself, Sehun can finish sewing a hanbok faster than the average estimate: a skill Aunt Booja has never stopped praising him for. Nothing beats the speed of completion four pairs of hands contribute. Whether Sehun has sewn a hanbok by himself or required help, he always splits his pay among them equally.

Commissions slow down, a sobering wake-up call they can’t rely solely on it. Wonho suggests selling hanboks. The lack of finances forces them to sell on the streets after dark. Sales are slow; some days, abysmal. If fortune smiles on them, they sell off everything before the police arrive for their nightly patrols. They’ve been playing a constant hide and seek game with the authorities since starting this risky business. Their luck runs out when they’re caught after a surprise inspection. Sehun tastes the stringent sort of unkindness for the first time when the police refuses to hear reason; watches the confiscation and manhandling of hanboks they’ve poured their hard work into. The police treat them like criminals and bring them to the station for questioning.

Desperate, nervous, Sehun convinces the officer in charge to free them through song. Two stanzas and they’re dismissed without charges.

They never return to selling in the streets, lesson learned.

On trying times, Sehun gains strength from Aunt Booja, with her fierce determination to succeed. From Wonho and Bumkyu, who lighten his somber moods with jokes and funny stories during their rebellious phase. From the music box he never fails to play once a day, winding it again and again, the figures dancing round and round. From the stars above, if he can see them on good days; wondering where Jongin is in this huge city, if he’s also looking at the same sky as him. From the song he links to Jongin, the melody he’s long carved into his heart. He hums it to calm himself; dreams of those precious days, if only for a sliver of momentary happiness from the harsh reality.

Difficult situations come with silver linings. Money earned from Wonho and Bumkyu taking part-time jobs, Sehun and Aunt Booja’s commissions, and legal paperwork acquire them a stall in Dongdaemun. Competition is fierce when your neighbors are selling similar items. Sehun believes the hanboks they sell are the best. Keeps this mindset, endorses it every time he woos a potential customer to choose their products over everybody else’s.

On a slow-paced afternoon, the hanbok alley is abuzz with the arrival of an old man browsing with idle interest. He’s checking each stall’s displayed hanboks—discerning, critical. Runs a hand down the fabrics, rubs the stitches between his fingers. He lets go if he’s dissatisfied and moves to the next stall. Shop owners do their best to seek his favor with their sales pitch, but they fall on deaf ears.

One look at the old man, and Sehun understands why. A custom-made suit. An expensive silver watch around his left wrist. An air of dignity about him in the way he carries himself as he strides past. A rich man looking to spend his money out of boredom.

The old man stops in front of their stall. He inspects the hanboks on display with the same scrutinizing eye. From inside, Wonho abandons his work; shoots Sehun a knowing look: _“I’ve got this.”_

Sehun nods and continues stitching, glancing on occasion, ears wide open.

“Are these hanbok on display sewn by hand?” the old man asks Wonho.

“Yes, sir! We seldom use sewing machines, if at all,” Wonho answers, with the right amount of enthusiasm.

“Interesting,” the old man drawls, though he doesn’t make a move to leave. Instead, he goes further inside, inspecting the garments, the stitches. His touch lingers on the fabrics, gaze fixed firm on them. Sehun cranes his neck for a better look, work forgotten. “These hanboks on display are the most outstanding I’ve seen today.”

Wonho brightens up. “My friend sewed those!” He gestures toward Sehun. “We work together, but the hanboks of your interest are sewn by him.”

Sehun hurries over, bowing in politeness. “How may I help you, sir?”

The man seems honestly surprised, perhaps unbelieving someone Sehun’s age can sew a hanbok; show interest in traditional clothing. He rubs the back of his fingers against the raw silk of a teal-colored chima; appears to like whatever it is he sees and feels because he turns to Sehun again and asks, “How much for this masterpiece?”

 

 

☆彡

 

 

Their shop’s discovery is a blessing in disguise.

Their hanboks sell out fast, the old man becoming one of their most loyal customers. No one knows of his identity excep for the obvious financial status. Sehun is content he keeps buying their products. Wonho does a background search of his own, asks around, produces results in a matter of days: Mr. Kwak, a retired chairman of a major electronics company, too much money in the bank, harbors a deep adoration for traditional clothing that doesn’t stop with him. After the first purchase for his wife, Mr. Kwak’s family members loved every single item they’ve bought from the shop, inspiring them to place commissions of their own; spread the word to other relatives and friends.

The surge of attention is dizzying and rewarding. So many visitors coming by to browse and leaving with bags of purchases. So much money spent without a care it’s scary. Bumkyu explains filthy rich people spend money as a hobby; a competition among their peers, sometimes. Wonho dreams of living the sort of life he won’t have to worry about money. Aunt Booja reminds them not to be too complacent and remain humble. Sehun, though puzzled by this phenomenon, is grateful many people think their hanboks are worth the attention, the recommendations. The money spent on it.

Clients grow in steady numbers. Business flourishes beyond initial expectations. Each day is busier than the last, days and nights blending together to meet increasing demands.

Two years later, they move out of their tiny stall and open a shop of their own, situated in one of the more upscale districts of Seoul. The result of their combined earnings, passion and diligence, weathering through problems and challenges, never giving up on this shared dream. Days prior to the official opening, they agree Aunt Booja should christen the shop with a name. She prepared one a long time ago. _Jinju._ Pearl.

Sehun agrees it’s a suitable name. The clients laud her choice; claim it’s appropriate for the timeless beauty of the hanboks sold.

They aren’t swimming in millions but can now sustain themselves without worrying of falling short. They move to a bigger, cleaner apartment with functional lights and faucets. No more fearing bugs or windows with broken locks. They can now pay rent on time without the threat of eviction. Starving is now part of a dark, distant past. No more sharing a single pack of _ramyun_ in one pot, or rationing rice and kimchi to last them until the end of next week. No more subsisting on _kimbap_ and dumplings from roadside stalls because it’s all they can afford after paying off debts. Aunt Booja continues budgeting, despite the newfound financial stability. Cautions them not to overspend.

Sehun doesn’t have a lot of wants. Living as a human for five years, transitioning from the simple, laidback lifestyle he’s known to the fast-moving, modern life in Seoul, he’s been exposed to all sorts of things and situations that teach him how to spend wisely. Pretty clothes attract him the most when passing by rows of high-end clothing shops and boutiques, but he doesn’t buy them right away. He’s become more critical of stitching techniques, the quality of fabrics, how it looks on him. The influence of tailoring and developed pickiness.

His pickiness extends to food. He eats everything Aunt Booja prepares well but is selective with other types. Sweets take up a large part of his diet. He hasn’t outgrown or forgotten chocolate wafer sticks. The first time they enter a supermarket with extra money in their pockets, he sees the very same brand Jongin gave him so many years ago. He buys five boxes at once; eats them with relish. It tastes the same as he remembers, each crunchy bite conjuring memories.

Sometimes, Sehun visits dessert cafes and orders their chocolate bingsu. They don’t capture or replicate the exact taste of the bingsu from the seaside shop, but it fills in the missing gaps—an acceptable reward working long hours in Jinju.

The past five years taught him to function like a human; blend well among them. Whereas Bumkyu is patient in teaching him how certain things work, Wonho always complains why he doesn’t know this or that, the expected common knowledge among humans. Sehun doesn’t blame Wonho for his rants, though he sometimes fires back in frustration when pushed too far. Arguments erupt and a cold war sometimes follows, but it doesn’t drag on for long.

The amassed knowledge of the human race sadly hasn’t helped him find Jongin.

But Sehun never stops searching for him; doesn’t lose hope. Wonho lends a hand by using his tech-savvy skills and online connections. Sehun’s lack of answers to the most basic questions—surname, birthdate, address, school, occupation—significantly limits their search. Bumkyu suggests posting online in public boards. Nothing happens.

Sehun keeps an open eye when walking in the streets, hoping one of them will be Jongin, if not resemble the one in his memories. Many years have passed. Who’s to say Jongin hasn’t changed physically, or still resides in Seoul? None of these matter to Sehun. He’s confident he’ll recognize Jongin, no matter how much he’s changed; will scour the world if it means he’ll find him somewhere out there.

One uneventful winter afternoon, Sehun chances upon a secondhand record shop. Hidden in a corner, it’s so easily missed if one doesn’t stop and look twice. Sehun almost misses it himself if he didn’t drop his candies by accident. He’s read about these shops. They sell records old and pre-loved, a treasure trove of vintage merchandise from artists past. He’s not sure what compels him to enter. From the counter, a part-timer greets him in monotone, more interested in reading their magazine than working.

No other customers are present. Sehun supposes it’s not a place often visited. Assorted vinyl records are displayed on shelves, some containing cassette tapes and CDs. Age shows on the covers’ faded colors; the dog-eared corners of booklets, creases spreading like veins across the pages. Letters in languages foreign and familiar are written on the spines; across front covers. They’re not sorted by any order, so Sehun is free to peruse the selections, even if he has no idea about the songs in the records; what they sound like. He hums the one song he knows by heart as he moves along, soft enough for only him to hear.

“I know that song you’re humming, young man.”

Sehun’s surprise must show on his face, judging from the old man’s comment and subsequent chuckle. He introduces himself as the record shop owner; beckons him with a quick hand movement. Sehun’s curiosity rises as he watches him sift through the boxes of vinyl records tucked away in a corner and plucks one from the batch.

A yellowish cover with faded profiles of four men. Across it is what Sehun guesses is an English word written in black, block letters. He mouths the words, unsure how to pronounce. The word sounds funny, even to his ears. “ _Over_.”

 _Off Course_ is the artist name. A Japanese folk rock group popular in their heyday, according to the record shop owner. He moves them over to the turntable, places the vinyl on top, raises and lowers the lever to a particular groove. He hands the headphones to Sehun.

The first few notes alone knock the breath out of Sehun’s lungs.

It’s the same song he’s been humming; the one from his music box. The same song he heard from Jongin’s strange contraption Sehun now knows is called a Walkman. The same song he and Jongin waltzed to during those summer afternoons.

The song closest to his heart. The song he treasures most, one he cannot, will not forget.

“How much for this?” Sehun asks, after the wistful trip down memory lane. He doesn’t know the first thing about vinyls or turntables, but he’s willing to learn for this. He’s not walking out of the shop without buying the record. If it’s expensive, he’ll work hard to earn the required sum and come back as soon as possible.

The record shop owner’s regretful expression makes his heart drop. “The vinyl isn’t for sale. It’s been reserved by someone else. Sorry.”

“But…” Sehun clutches the vinyl record close to his chest, unwilling to part with it. He can’t lose something he’s just found. “Who reserved this? I’ll buy it off their hands for a higher price.”

“No, thank you. That record is _mine_.”

Sehun rounds at the newcomer’s voice.

Stunned speechless at who he sees.

A young man with dark hair swept back from his forehead; darker eyes determined in their purpose, in his words. He stands almost as tall as Sehun minus some centimeters; carries himself with an air of sophistication and charisma despite the casualness of his attire consisting of a black coat, a gray turtleneck, and a pair of jeans. His eyes are fixed on the vinyl record in Sehun’s hold, poker face momentarily giving way to what can only be described as nostalgia.

Sehun stares properly; closely. The longer he does, the more he’s certain this is—

“Jongin.”

Jongin startles, as if jolted awake.

This time, Sehun is more confident, joy a slow-blooming flower in his chest. The corners of his mouth rise upward on their own accord.

“Jongin. Jongin. It’s you, right, Jongin?”

Sehun’s past prediction comes true: he _does_ say Jongin’s name the first time they see each other again. The way he says it sounds perfect to his ears.

Uncertainty crosses Jongin’s face, though he doesn’t rebuke or turn him away. His brows furrow as he studies Sehun.

“I’m sorry, have we met somewhere before? You look quite familiar, though.” Jongin’s acting guarded, rightly so, but not cold. His curious gaze searches Sehun’s face, perhaps trying to figure out if this is an act.

“It’s me. Sehun. The Sehun you met from the village of lost voices.”

The effect is instantaneous. Mentioning his name stuns Jongin, eyes widening and flooding with recognition, mouth forming a perfect ‘O.’ Jongin stares at him like he’s delivered the most unbelievable news. For a moment, Sehun worries he’s rendered him too speechless.

“Is it… Are you really…?” Jongin sounds breathless in his shock, stumbling over his words. He reaches out and holds Sehun by the arms, as if to confirm he’s not hallucinating. As if to to make sure Sehun’s right there in front of him, solid and firm and _real_. His palms slide upward until they find Sehun’s cheeks, cradling his face with the gentlest of touches.

Sehun’s unsure when Jongin has stepped close, crowding in on his space. The tips of their noses are almost brushing. Nothing is more important right now than finally finding Jongin and standing right in front of him. Jongin touching him, lips curving upward, like the long years of absence in each other’s lives never happened.

“Is this really happening? Have I found my Sehun?” Jongin leans back to look at his face, eyes glimmering with happiness. “And you can talk now! _How?_ After all these years, I thought…”

Sehun shakes his head right away, already knowing what Jongin will say from the dipping of his smile. The words contained in his heart for years and years fall carelessly from his lips, unfiltered, unstoppable.

“I didn’t mean to make you wait so long. I know you waited for me every day at the beach when you returned that summer. For all the waiting you’ve done, I was determined to repay you. I’m sorry it took so long. I didn’t know where to start looking, but I never stopped. I never stopped thinking about you, either.”

Jongin doesn’t interrupt him, listening with rapt attention, smile never disappearing. After the words have gone and Sehun is left sparse of them, Jongin’s expression turns fond, even as he complains, “You stood me up for so many days when I went back! An entire summer, to be exact.”

“Sorry,” Sehun says right away, feeling the need to apologize. He’ll apologize as much as he can for it, if needed.

“You’ll have to make it up to me,” Jongin says, lower lip jutting out in a pout. “There’s so much I want to know. I’m not letting you off until you’ve told me everything.”

Sehun can’t help chuckling, remembering well the many pouts he’s received. “How should I make it up to you?” he asks, genuinely curious.

Jongin’s lips stretch into an affectionate smile. The very same smile Sehun’s preserved in his memories. Years and circumstances can change an individual, but some things will oddly stay the same. Jongin’s smile is one of them, no matter how grown up he looks now; more mature, more attractive than his teenage self.

On his fifth year living as a human, Sehun tastes immeasurable and unparalleled happiness.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

Soft melodies and Oda Kazumasa’s soulful voice cascade through Jinju’s premises. Sehun hums along if he’s not conversing with customers or answering phone calls; times his stitching to the upbeat numbers, if he dares. So many songs on the album he can’t name yet, but repeated playing teaches him when to expect the most important track among them.

And every time that song comes next, Sehun sings along the best he can. The difference is he knows the lyrics, now. Learned through repetition, and Jongin’s special guide on how to read the foreign language. The lines sounded funny to his ears the first time he read them aloud; the syllables, peculiar on his tongue. He’s long overcome the awkwardness through constant practice. He doesn’t consider his pronunciation perfect, by any means, but Jongin assures him he’s doing well; shared he’s undergone a similar experience in the past on his path to learning Japanese, the language of their song.

Jongin mastered it a long time ago; teaches it now, too, in a prestigious university. He’s stayed in Japan on an exchange during college; vacationed there plenty of times, too.

“I think you’ll like Tokyo,” Jongin told him on one of their “study sessions,” as he liked calling it. Spring arrived early this year, and they chose a perfect spot to watch the cherry blossoms.

“Is Tokyo anything like Seoul?” Sehun asked, leaning back on his arms and watched the pink petals flutter to the ground. The farthest he traveled was from Aunt Booja’s village to Seoul in a bus. He read airplanes were the main transportation method for traveling outside a country. He’d seen pictures but wasn’t sure he’d like sitting in a machine that looked like a gargantuan bird of metal.

“Similar, but different.” Jongin detailed the whys and hows. Showed him pictures on his phone. Sehun listened; nodded. Marveled at the sights sliding across the crystal screen.

“I think I like Seoul better,” Sehun concluded, after Jongin finished explaining.

Jongin looked surprised; intrigued. “Why? You’ve never been there.”

“Seoul is better because you’re here.”

Jongin’s eyes enlarged, a rosy red coloring his cheeks as he struggled for a reply. Settled for hitting Sehun weakly on the shoulder.

Sehun only laughed in return. The smile didn’t leave Jongin’s face for a long time after.

“This song again.” Wonho’s comment interrupts Sehun’s reminiscing. He’s on the opposite side of the room, organizing and arranging newly-delivered bolts of fabric for storing in the built-in shelves. “What kind of spell are you casting on us, playing this song on repeat?”

Sehun fakes a scandalized gasp and continues cutting a straight line through a forest green fabric. “How did you know of my brainwashing plans?”

“I swear to god, that cursed song will follow me to my nightmares tonight,” Wonho commented in wry jest. Rustles of fabric; a contemplative hum. “For real, though, is this your boyfriend’s taste? Vintage vinyls and old-ass turntables? Streaming and iPods are the in things these days. You sure your boyfriend’s not a total grandpa with technology?”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” No names are mentioned, but Sehun knows who Wonho’s talking about.

“Really,” Wonho drawls. He doesn’t sound convinced. If Sehun turns around now, he’ll catch him rolling his eyes, probably. “Could’ve fooled me with his daily visits. And this smile on your face when you see him. Like, skin-crawling gross type of smile.”

Sehuh pauses mid-cut. Frowns. “I smile when I see you and Bumkyu. Can’t I be happy seeing a friend?”

“Okay, but do friends stare at you with heart eyes?”

Sehun scowls, completely stopping this time, and turns around. Wonho may have sensed danger and pressed himself up against the wall, arms held out in defense in case of an attack. “What in seven seas are ‘heart eyes?’ How does one get hearts in their eyes? Jongin doesn’t do that.” Is it even humanly possible? Perhaps a figure of speech or a human phenomenon Sehun has yet to discover?

Wonho gapes. Stares at him in disbelief. “You’d have to be incredibly blind not to see how smitten your boyfriend is to be shooting you with heart eyes.”

“I just told you he’s _not_ my boyfriend.”

“Sehun, your boyfriend’s here!” Bumkyu announces, booming voice reverberating around Jinju.

“He’s _not_ —!” Sehun has never left his workstation so fast until this moment—panicked, anxious. Wonho’s teasing and Bumkyu’s words trigger a flood of heat in his cheeks, and it worsens the moment his gaze lands on Jongin.

Jongin’s standing right next to a display rack of women’s jeogori. He smiles at his appearance; looks every bit the teacher he is in his black dress shirt and dark jeans ensemble. “Hi. Still working?”

“I’m—”

“—just about to head out,” Wonho finishes behind him, a knowing glint in his eyes; a mischievous curl to his lips. Sehun glares. “You’re free to go. The commission isn’t due until next week, anyway. Bumkyu- _hyung_ and I will manage.”

“Yeah, Sehun, don’t keep your boyfriend waiting.” Bumkyu’s innocent remark intensifies the stinging heat on his face.

In a rush to escape deeper embarrassment, Sehun returns to his workstation for his belongings and rejoins Jongin. Bumkyu sees them to the door. Wonho sends them off with more teasing. Sehun reminds himself to give them extra work tomorrow as payback.

“I’m sorry about my friends,” Sehun says in a rush, once they’re ten paces away from Jinju. He doesn’t know why he’s apologizing; can’t explain the nervousness creeping up on him. “They’re just teasing. Don’t take it too seriously. It’s like their side job to make my life miserable.”

“They’re good friends,” Jongin comments, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag on his shoulder. “Teasing is normal, but I don’t think they were being malicious. My friends are the same, but they know when to not cross the line, which is good.”

“My friends can learn a thing or two from yours,” Sehun muses aloud. Shudders at the thought. “I take that back. What if it backfires and they gang up on us? I’m not sure I’m prepared for that kind of suffering.”

Jongin laughs, a loud, delightful sound. Sehun wants to hear it again. “If our friends get along, it means we can all hang out together. No tension, more fun. If it’s any consolation, I won’t let you suffer alone.”

Sehun ignores the skipping of his heart by playfully nudging Jongin’s shoulder. “So, where are you taking me this time?”

Jongin shoots him a slanted, teasing look. “Can’t wait until I bring it up myself?”

Communication was reestablished after their reunion and never ceased. Sehun now knows what it’s like keeping his phone close _not_ for business reasons, wishing every message alert tone or incoming call means seeing Jongin’s name appear on the screen. His mornings are made brighter with a simple message, calls at night guaranteeing a good sleep, despite having already seen each other hours before. On the rare days they don’t meet, when he or Jongin or both of them are too busy with work or other prior engagements, a hollowness in his chest and a sense of incompleteness accompanies Sehun home, no matter how fulfilling and productive his day has been.

Jongin’s first visit to Jinju surprised him. Sehun gave him a business card but didn’t expect an immediate visit. A day after their meeting, amid heated discussion with Wonho and Bumkyu about which shade of yellow was more suitable for a child’s birthday, Jongin’s arrival at Jinju’s doorstep defused the tension. Jongin confessed later he almost got lost, despite using a map app. Sehun thought him cute. Jongin protested.

Sehun didn’t think much of Jongin’s second visit. Third. Started losing count and losing track. Didn’t notice Jongin’s been visiting for three months straight until Wonho mentioned the fact; that they’ve been eating out or decompressing after work together for just as long.

“I heard _Kotoba ni Dekinai_ playing in Jinju,” Jongin says, once their orders are served. Today they’re at a _dak galbi_ restaurant recommended by Jongin’s co-teacher. “Bumkyu- _ssi_ told me you’ve been playing the song on loop for days.”

“I play the entire album first. _Then_ I play it on loop,” Sehun clarifies, chewing on seasoned spinach. “Our older clients recognize the song. It must’ve been popular back in the day. Some of them can sing along but use the Korean lyrics. It’s a wonderful song, matter what language it’s sung in.”

“A timeless song,” Jongin agrees.

“You haven’t told me what the lyrics mean. I remember your promise.”

“So do I,” Jongin says. “I’ll tell you what the song’s about, so be patient. Don’t even think about searching for a translation on the internet. It has to come from me. I mean it!” He sounds half-serious, half-childish.

Sehun conceals his amusement by munching on a baby potato. “Are you sure I can keep the vinyl with me a little longer?”

Jongin bought it, but the album spent a longer time in Sehun’s possession. Sehun remembered staring in envy as Jongin paid, wishing he found it first. Jongin lent the album to him, an unexpected move. Assured Sehun he didn’t mind; better him than anyone else, Jongin claimed. Sehun adored the album, but he refused to take advantage of Jongin’s generosity.

“It’s fine. I know it’s in good hands,” Jongin says, fishing a chicken thigh from the pot. His lips form a cheeky smile. “As long as you have the record, I’ll know where to find you.”

The restaurant’s ventilation works fine, but Sehun’s cheeks feel a little warm.

They’re deep in conversation about cooking shows while heading to the subway. Sehun’s interrupted mid-explanation by a drop of water to the tip of his nose. Forehead, cheek, shoulders. Jongin pulls them aside to the nearest awning just in time the rain falls down in thick sheets. Sehun takes out an umbrella from his bag. He looks at Jongin in question, wondering why he’s not doing anything.

“I don’t have an umbrella,” Jongin answers, sheepish in the admission. “I’m quite forgetful about my stuff.”

“The weather report this morning said to expect erratic rain showers. Remember to pack one from now on.” Sehun opens his umbrella and holds it over him as he steps out. Tips his head in invitation.

It’s a tight fit under an umbrella meant for one, so they huddle as close as possible. They move slow, steps measured, to minimize chances of slipping on the wet pavement. Jongin’s looped his arm through his, hands clutching his forearm tight when avoiding puddles. Sehun notes the sullen air about Jongin, his sudden silence since the rain began. It doesn’t break on their descent to the subway station, or when Sehun closes his umbrella. Jongin doesn’t let go of his arm; doesn’t talk as they stand waiting for the train.

Sehun lightly taps Jongin’s hand on his elbow. Jongin startles; blinks in confusion at him. “You can tell me anything, if you want.”

Athough he says this, Sehun also prepares himself for more silence. He won’t force Jongin to talk if he’s not in the mood, unready to share. He’s taken aback seeing the wistful smile touching Jongin’s features as he speaks.

“When I was five, our old dog ran away from home and was never seen again. At twelve, I broke my arm pretty bad and stayed cooped up at home the entire summer. I turned nineteen when I was told my aunt and uncle who lived near your village would move out of the country, so there was no reason to visit anymore. Losing phones, failing tests, spraining my ankle the night before a dance performance, food poisoning—unlucky episodes, big or small, they tend to happen on rainy days.” Jongin sighs in sorrow. “It doesn’t matter how high my spirits have been earlier. Rainy days dampen my mood.”

Sehun nods to prove he’s listening. He’s unsure if it’s the right reaction. Jongin’s smile turns less melancholic, so he’s probably chosen right. Human peculiarities are endless, he thinks.

Neither of them pursued conversation during the commute. Sehun isn’t used to prolonged silences, but the lack of exchange isn’t awkward. Others around them are busy with their phones. Jongin mumbles about feeling tired; rests his head on Sehun’s shoulder after asking permission. Sehun catches whiffs of a fruity scent from Jongin’s hair. He rests his hands on top of his bag; wills away the temptation of running his fingers through the strands.

Jongin only lets go of his arm when they reach his stop and needs to alight. The gesture is akin to peeling away a layer of warmth from Sehun’s chest. From the other side, Jongin looks back one last time and waves goodbye with a tiny smile. Sehun waves back, gradual, halfhearted. In the background, he sees other people walking about toting damp umbrellas. He hears the hissing of the doors, watches them close—

—and dashes through the narrowing gaps before they completely snap shut, startling nearby spectators and Jongin.

Sehun rights himself after almost losing balance, his pulse quickening from the rush in pulling off the daring act.

“Are you out of your mind?” Jongin rushes to scold him, though his face is lined with worry. “Why did you do that?”

“It’s still raining outside. You could get sick,” Sehun reasons. “I won’t let you walk under the rain without an umbrella.”

Jongin looks increasingly baffled the more Sehun spoke. Neither breaks eye contact. The only thing Sehun can hear is the thumping of his heartbeat inside his head while waiting for a reaction. People in their surroundings have moved on, but they stay standing in tense silence.

Finally, Jongin’s face relaxes; shoves him lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t scare me like that again. What if your foot got caught when the doors were closing, or worse? You could’ve been seriously hurt.” His lips formed pouts around certain syllables as he scolds. It’s not the right time, but Sehun finds him adorable he couldn’t help chuckling.

Jongin catches the sound and scowls. “Hey, take me seriously. I’m worried, and you have the gall to chuckle?”

Again with the pouting. Again with Sehun’s chuckling. He appeases an irate Jongin with an apology; wears a particular smile he’s noticed Jongin can’t resist.

The rain hasn’t stopped when they leave the subway station. Jongin’s apartment building isn’t a far walk, stands in a modest, quiet neighborhood. Sehun sees him to the entryway; waits for Jongin to pass through the safety of its glass doors before turning around to leave.

His phone rings midway down the first block. Sehun’s surprised to see Jongin’s name on the screen.

“Thank you for today,” Jongin tells him. “You’re still reckless. Don’t do things that can give me a heart attack next time.”

Sehun furrows his brow. The list of puzzling things to ask Aunt Booja is growing. “I never attacked your heart. And I said sorry for that.”

“I’m serious: don’t do reckless things anymore. But that’s not why I called.” The sternness of Jongin’s voice disappears, replaced by something gentler, softer. “I know why you did it. You didn’t have to, but… I liked it. Thanks to you, I wasn’t too sad walking under the rain today.”

Sehun caved to the tugging of his lips, chest overflowing with joy for allaying Jongin’s sadness, if only for a little.

“That’s good. I’m glad.”

“I’m happy,” Jongin says, and Sehun can hear him smile through the words. “I’m really, really happy today.”

The rain tapers off to a drizzle. The cool night air bathes his skin, but Sehun feels nothing but warmth.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

Sehun stares at his ticket; the gate meters away from where he stood. People who enter and exit wear huge grins and chatter nonstop, their excitement palpable. He wonders if he’ll give a similar reaction once he steps inside.

Jongin tips his head to the direction of the entrance. “Come on, let’s go.”

During yesterday’s phone call, Jongin told him he’d take him somewhere. Sehun attempted extracting details, but Jongin remained tight-lipped; insisted keeping it a surprise.

Lotte World Aquarium is the furthest thing in Sehun’s list of possibilities. He doesn’t know what an aquarium is, what it serves as. He does a quick search on the internet; is horrified by some of the results. Fragments of past conversations with merfolk veterans and their adventures on land come back to him. Most of their tales are whimsical and comedic, and a select few about untold horrors. How the sea’s gifts are misused and exploited, if fallen to the wrong human hands.

Jongin seems to sense his distress and hesitation because he asks, in a concerned voice, “What’s wrong? Are aquariums not your thing?”

Sehun schools his face in what he hopes looks like a neutral enough expression and shakes his head. “Oh, it’s… I’ve never been to an aquarium before.” Not a complete lie. “I don’t know what to expect.” Not a complete truth.

Jongin’s eyes widen. “You’re kidding.” The words come out as a surprised gasp, sans mockery. He supplies information about aquariums, aligning with the positive things Sehun’s read. His surprise is now replaced with excitement and determination as he declares, “Let’s go. I promise you it’s going to be fun.”

Sehun tries, for Jongin’s sake and his efforts. For himself, too, and his curiosity of what lies ahead. His nervousness is mixed with anticipation on their entry; completely wiped out by awe at what awaits. The aquarium’s slightly dark passageways enhance the blue glow of the waters; the iridescent hues of various sea creatures swimming in front of his eyes, behind, overhead in the arched tunnels. The capacious space accommodates herds of people and giant tanks; the silence lending for peace and relaxation—things Sehun have not felt since stepping inside.

He walks and loses himself in this strange environment. Sehun marvels how tanks can showcase the wonders of the sea, but also feels wronged for friends held captivity. A great aching blooms in his chest, longing for the home he left in exchange for following his heart. The glimpses of marine flora and fauna remind him of his grandmother, old and wise, strong and kind, who sent him off with a smile. Sehun wonders how she’s doing; if she’s faring well in the years without him. If the dexterity of her hands hasn’t gone yet as she weaves one glamorous shawl after another. Hands he’s inherited, and now uses for his own survival.

Sehun surveys each sea animal he passes; know he’s being watched in return. His dormant merman senses have sprung to life and alerted him of the larger creatures following his every move. Seahorses sail past, sparing him a glance before proceeding on their way. A mother turtle and two of her babies, one of them waving at him with its front leg. Sehun wiggles his fingers in clumsy greeting; remembers he’s not alone and panics. A cursory glance tells him Jongin’s distracted by the cownose rays, vocalizing his awe in childlike wonder. Jongin tugs at Sehun’s sleeve as he points at other animals, makes up stories about them.

In a separate tank, a pair of beluga whales put on a show of playing with toys given by the caretaker. A third is uncaring and swimming at leisure around the tank. Sehun feels drawn to it, walking closer and stopping inches away from the glass. The swimming beluga notices him; tilts its head. Sehun presses a hand flat on the glass; startles at the playful voice that enters his mind.

 _“Hello, little merman,”_ it says. _“How nice of you to visit.”_

Sehun smiles at the beluga whale’s babbling. The noise draws the attention of people nearby. Sehun ignores them, gaze fixed on the approaching beluga whale. It engages in eye contact; glides purposefully slow in front of him. A crowd begins to form, hoping the beluga whale will notice them, too.

“Whoa, the beluga whale looked at you!” Jongin comments in pure astonishment. Sehun tears his eyes away from the tank; looks again. The beluga whale swam away to join its kin. Children continue calling for it, trying to get its attention. “It looked like you were having a conversation with the beluga whale. I called your name twice, but you didn’t hear me.”

“Something like that,” Sehun agrees, nodding his head slowly. Smiles for full effect. It doesn’t stretch as wide as he likes.

All these creatures. All this water. If he closes his eyes hard enough, Sehun can picture himself back at sea, swimming to his heart’s content. Back at the cave, helping his grandmother with her weaving, longing for a world he can’t reach and a boy whose smile he dreams of night after night.

It’s a heavy burden, for his heart to be torn in two: one yearning for the waters he was born in and raised, the other half taking root and firmly planting itself in a world not his own. It’s a heavy burden, walking in the aquarium, passing by one tank after another and be reminded of his origins; reminded he’s living with borrowed body parts on borrowed time.

Warring emotions sit heavy on his chest—constricting, painful. It pushes out tears from Sehun’s eyes unbidden, uncontrolled.

“What’s wrong?” Jongin is frantic, fussing over him. His eyes are filled with concern. He leads them over to the side so they’re not in people’s way.

Sehun roughly wipes away the traitorous tears from his face. “I miss home,” he manages to say. This time, it’s nothing but the truth. He smiles in thanks at the napkin Jongin offers and uses it to dab at his damp cheeks.

Jongin’s expression softens. He stays quiet as Sehun composes himself. “Did the aquarium remind you of your village?” he asks, carefully, breaking the long silence between them. “You’ve always been a child of the sea, huh? Living in Seoul must be pretty tough on you.”

Sehun tenses, guessing he’s about to be caught; relaxes at the end of Jongin’s comment. He hasn’t really thought about what he’d do if Jongin finds out the truth. Does Jongin not remember his bicycle accident in their youth; the blue blood oozing out from his wound? Sehun can’t bring himself to answer, not even with the surplus of words at hand. Not when he feels like he’ll tip over and spill everything; risk scaring Jongin and ruining his second chance.

Jongin doesn’t say anything to fill in the silence, but it’s comfortable. He waits until Sehun confirms he’s fine before they head to the escalator. Jongin has one hand curled around Sehun’s elbow, a steady but assuring weight, squeezing lightly to comfort him. Sehun lets Jongin decide where to go after, no definite destination in mind. Sehun had places to suggest, but his mood has dived considerably. Images of sea life and the familiar surroundings of his cave flash fresh in his mind still.

Sehun blinks, mildly surprised by the vibrant red and white paint of the Weeny Beeny shop they enter. Questioning Jongin is forgotten upon seeing the assorted chocolates and candies on display. Like a curious merchild, he browses the selections, taking recommendations from the saleslady but narrowing down his choices later on. He hopes he isn’t too obvious with the amount of sea-related confections on the pile. Jongin pays for the treats before he can question why he’s taken out his wallet.

“My co-teachers have rubbed off their belief on me that sweet things are good when you’re tired or sad,” Jongin tells him as they walk away from the shop. “Take it as my apology, too. I should’ve asked you first if the aquarium is a good idea. Looks like I upset you, instead. I’m sorry.”

“What? No, no; not at all,” Sehun reassures, grabbing hold of Jongin’s arm so he’ll look at him. The sadness and regret clouding Jongin’s features doesn’t suit him in the slightest. Sehun wants to wipe it away. “You didn’t upset me. I miss home, and I was overwhelmed by how much. I won’t lie about that. But you didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t blame yourself. I don’t.”

Uncertainty flickers across Jongin’s face. To prove his point, Sehun fishes a random candy from the bag and welcomes its sweetness on his tongue. Another, this time a yellow gummy bear, and feeds it to Jongin, who looks surprised, then shy as he accepts the candy.

“I should be cheering you up, not the other way around,” Jongin whines, bottom lip jutting out. A positive sign.

“I feel better now,” Sehun says. This time, he means it.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

The changing of seasons is unstoppable, as is the passage of time. Focusing on these hampers Sehun’s enjoyment of his human life. He’s aware when this ends, and he intends to use the remaining years wisely; enjoy to the fullest. The episode in the aquarium served as a reminder never to take anything for granted; drove him to hold on to the memories he’s made and will make during his time as a land dweller.

Keeping busy helps, too. Sehun’s grateful for the burst of activity, the pile of commissions, preparations for the upcoming market event in celebration of hanbok week they partake in yearly. A few months before the event, they hire extra hands new and returning. Jinju’s work area, though expanded after some mini reconstructions, ends up cramped from the additional people. Sehun spends every day with them; teaches what needs to be taught, considers helpful suggestions, if any. Sehun makes sure to spend one-on-one with each of them while working or on breaks. They allow him glimpses into their lives, whether by sharing a funny snippet about their lovers or showing pictures of grandchildren with proud smiles. At the end of the day, Sehun sends off each part-timer home with fruits or candies. “Share it with your family,” is his reminder each time.

Midway through summer, Jongin drops a surprise on him while they amble about in the mall.

“Let’s take a trip to where it all started.”

Sehun opens and closes his mouth several times, processing the words. “Do you mean the village of lost voices?”

“I haven’t gone back in years. I’m curious what it looks like now,” Jongin tells him.

Sehun nibbles on a chocolate wafer stick Jongin bought for him before telling the truth about the lighthouse. Jongin is stunned by the revelation.

He repeats the same thing to Jongin the following weekend, when they stand before the expanse of land where the lighthouse used to be.

“There must be a reason they removed it,” Sehun says, in an attempt at erasing the sad expression on Jongin’s face.

Jongin’s lips curve downward. His eyes sweep over the gaping space. “This place is dear to me. Here is where I met you for the first time,” he says, after a period of silence.

Sehun nods. “And many other times after that.”

Jongin’s frown disappears a little. He chuckles. “You looked so disappointed the first time we met. Like you couldn’t believe someone else had found the lighthouse, too.”

“That’s…” Heat suffuses Sehun’s cheeks. It’s not caused by the sun. “Can you blame me? I was hoping the lighthouse would be my little secret. Imagine finding someone else there. But I’m glad I met you here. I’m glad you found the lighthouse.”

 _I’m glad you found me_ rings loud and clear, an unspoken confession, but it doesn’t make it out of his mouth. Somehow, Jongin seems to understand, his smile widening as he sidles closer.

Compared to Sehun’s last visit, many new faces inhabit the village, none he recognizes. The number of huts seems to have lessened, too. One friendly villager explains plenty have set out for Seoul and other cities in search of a better life. Those who remain have strong roots tied to the fishing village, mostly the elders, though their numbers are dwindling, sickness and old age having taken them permanent captives. The youths aren’t interested in learning the ways of fishing, so the boats remain mainly unused, other forms of livelihood now preferred.

The village’s desolate state saddens Sehun. He may have spent only one summer here, but its people have treated him and his kind warmly. Gone is its former glory and crumbling to nothingness. He wishes to do something, but his limitations frustrate him.

One pleasant surprise is the bingsu shop. The fresh paint job injects a youthful vibe to its interior, together with the hip-looking furniture. One bite of the chocolate bingsu, and Sehun feels more at home than he’s been in the past half hour, surrounded by awkward gaps between houses and strangers’ faces.

Jongin seems to share the same opinion, face visibly brightening after one spoonful. Without a word, he passes the wafer sticks from his bowl to Sehun’s. “You’ve always loved them,” is all he says, like it’s enough explanation, and it is.

The shop owner is surprised to see them on his return from a market trip. He practically drops the bags of produce he’s carrying and rushes to them, giving bear hugs too tight but brimming with affection. Sehun is touched the shop owner still recognizes them to this day, despite the lack of communication.

The shop owner takes a good, long look at Jongin, holding him at arm’s length. “Well, now, what do we have here? You’ve grown into a fine young man!” He addresses Sehun next. “I see you did good and searched for him like you were set out to do years ago.”

Sehun feels the weight of Jongin’s gaze on him. “It took a while, but I found him.”

“Never let him out of your sight anymore, then,” the shop owner advises. “I admit to thinking the chances of reunion between you were slim. Looks like I was wrong—and gladly so.”

They spend time catching up until the sun has gone into hiding behind the thick wool of clouds of the late afternoon. They return to the beach now that it’s cooler. They didn’t bring a change of clothes, so swimming and playing their old game of holding their breath are out of the question. The most they can do is pulling up their jeans the farthest it can go and soaking their feet in the water.

The first dip of his foot fills the crevices in Sehun’s homesick heart. It’s not enough, but immersing his feet ankle-deep in these deep blue waters he loves so much eases the longing. His mirth heightens when he walks farther and fishes swim close, circling his ankles, following his every step. Sehun bends down and dips his hand; smiles fondly as they glide and bump against his fingers.

An excited laugh breaks Sehun out of his thoughts and scares the fish away. Two steps away to the side stands Jongin, looking down into the water; excitedly tells him of his feet sinking in the sand when he walks, squishy and grainy between his toes. He’s smiling and laughing, and Sehun doesn’t know why, but before he realizes it, he’s crouching down and flicking water in his direction.

Jongin stops in his surprise. The water stains his shirt in a diagonal, uneven line. “Did you really just do that?” he asks, tone indignant, expression just as much.

Playfulness amped, Sehun repeats the action. This time, Jongin is more prepared; flicks water at him with both hands. Sehun ducks a beat too late—half his shirt is now wet. A proclamation of war. It ends in a draw, both soused.

They hang their soaked shirts on a tree branch, leaving it to the sun to dry them in record time. For the time being, they relax on a pallet under the tree, enjoying the cool breeze blowing in from the sea.

“I missed this place a lot. We’ve made a ton of memories here,” Jongin says, a sentimental quality in his tone. “Let’s come back here the soonest we can. Next weekend can do, too.”

Sehun almost agrees but remembers his duties, the commissions waiting for him. He’s only taken this day-off out of his own error. Jongin’s pleading puppy eyes convinced him to give any answer but no. “That would be nice,” is the answer he settles for. “I’d like that.”

“You’re always so lively playing in the water, it’s almost like you’re a part of the sea.”

It’s an offhand comment, but Sehun can’t stop himself from tensing at the words. Jongin doesn’t seem to have noticed, staring far off into the distance with a smile on his lips; the breeze tousling his hair. Sehun is thankful, though a tiny pang of guilt pricks his insides. Chooses his next words with care.

“I missed the sea. It’s a huge part of my life. Always will be.”

“I’m envious of the sea because of it. Will you spare me some space in your life, too?”

Their gazes lock, and Sehun can’t find it anywhere in him to look away. He doesn’t want to. A tangle of emotions swirls in Jongin’s eyes. Sehun remembers this look; these emotions. He’s witnessed it before, so long ago. He remembers what and how he’s felt then, and it’s similar to way his heartbeat is madly racing now.

“You’ve never not been a part of my life,” Sehun admits. “The question is if I’ve been a part of yours, even if we haven’t seen and talked to each other in years.”

“Of course,” comes Jongin’s immediate answer. So much conviction in his words they sear Sehun’s heart. “I’ve never forgotten you. Not once. I returned the summer after we met, hoping to see you again. You never showed up. I cried on the way home from the beach every time and gradually lost hope. I’ll be honest: I resented you for breaking your promise. But I grew up, lived, realized you must have had your reasons for not coming and accepted that reality.”

Although Jongin’s tone is light and free of accusation, Sehun can’t help feeling guilty. He wants so badly to tell him why he couldn’t show up, the magical barrier preventing him to cross over, but holds his tongue. Instead, he nods.

“I won’t ask why if you don’t want to tell me. Whenever you’re ready,” Jongin tells him. Smiles to show he means it. “Then you show up years later. You can talk now, too! Miracles _do_ happen sometimes. I may not know all of your circumstances, but I’m so happy I found you again.”

“I came to Seoul for you,” Sehun says, smiling at the way Jongin’s eyes rounds; how he flusters. “I came to Seoul to look for you. I was warned many times it might not happen, but I never lost hope. I was determined to find you, to the last of my abilities, to the ends of the earth. I’m sorry it couldn’t be sooner. I’m sorry for making you wait too long.”

Jongin’s expression of surprise gives way to something softer, the emotions in his eyes intensifying. “I thought what I felt for you in the past disappeared forever. Puppy love, infatuation, what have you. But since you came back, so have these feelings. I didn’t say anything or acted on them right away because I wanted to be clear about what I felt. I didn’t want to jump into anything, regret it later, and hurt you. And now…” A shaky, steadying breath. “Now, I don’t think I can stay friends with you. I _don’t_ want to stay friends with you. As long as I feel like this, I will want something more.” His mouth twists in a nervous, hopeful smile. “So, I want to know: are you going to take responsibility for what you’ve done?”

For a fleeting moment, Sehun sees the young version of Jongin before him—transparent, ruddy-cheeked, straightforward when the occasion calls for it. He recalls with complete clarity something similar Jongin said long ago. The night of the harvest festival. The night each other’s feelings were realized and bloomed into an ephemeral flower of young love.

Sehun doesn’t mean to chuckle at the similarities but fails. Not giving him the chance to react in any way, Sehun looks at Jongin’s hand resting between them and takes hold of the forefinger. Nothing too tight, just a light grip around the finger, hoping it conveys what he means. Feels.

A confused look passes Jongin’s face, but he doesn’t protest or shrug his hand away.

Sehun includes the middle finger in his grip. Ring finger. Pinky. Each time, Sehun glances up, waiting for resistance or rejection. Each time, Jongin’s confusion fades, and his smile grows.

Four fingers in his hold. Sehun lightly brushes the pad of his thumb across the knuckles back and forth; gazes deep in Jongin’s eyes.

“Years have passed, but my feelings haven’t waned. I don’t think they will, if I’m to be honest. So, yes, I’ll take full responsibility.”

 

 

☆彡

 

 

Years of running Jinju provides Sehun the opportunities of meeting people from different walks of life. He’s grateful if they’re the kind, understanding customers who patronize the shop. He’s met difficult customers, too, who are hard to please and criticize the tiniest details. He wins them over with a winsome smile, or honeyed words targeting weak spots when spoken in the right moments. Seldom does he use the power of his voice, instances which can be counted on one hand. He reserves it for those who stir trouble on purpose. Those don’t pose as serious threats, though he’s noticed he has to sing longer now for the magic to take effect. The sea witch’s warning rings true about the weakening of his voice’s power.

Right now, Sehun’s biggest challenge yet stands before him in all her ninety-four centimeters of adorable, pouty glory.

Sehun kneels so he can look at the little girl face to face; wears his most amiable smile. “Uncle has to take your measurements for a hanbok.”

The little girl pouts harder; crosses her arms in defiance. “I don’t want to wear a hanbok.”

“Jieun-ah, please cooperate,” the nanny pleads, a panicked edge to her voice. Sehun stands aside to make room for her. They’ve been deadlocked in this situation for fifteen minutes. “Let the handsome uncle take your measurements so we can leave. You can’t be late to your ballet class.”

Jieun’s frown looks so severe her nanny’s face whitens. This doesn’t bode well. “I don’t want to!” The end of her sentence comes out as a high-pitched, irritated whine.

Sehun knows of Jieun’s mother, one of Jinju’s loyal customers. She phoned ahead of time about sending her daughter for a hanbok fitting. Sehun doesn’t understand why a nanny is here instead of the mother. He’s been told she’s busy, and while he understands, he thinks she could have made time for her daughter.

The nanny has sorted to bribing her: candies, toys, an extra hour to play on the smartphone, a trip to the amusement park. Sehun breathes out the most discreet sigh he can muster. He doesn’t have all day, but rushing a mercurial child may end disastrously. He refuses to charm her into doing his bidding. It’s not right, so he’ll do his best and wait for a positive end.

Good intentions aren’t enough, he finds out, when Jieun stays unconvinced and grumpier than five minutes ago. Jieun’s face reddens by the second and, perhaps having reaching the limit, stomps her foot and shrieks.

“I don’t want to have a fitting! I don’t want a hanbok! I want Daddy! I want to go see Daddy!”

The outburst stuns everyone into silence and concludes with a wail. Jieun bursts into tears, plopping down where she stands and kicking her legs, pushing away her nanny’s arms in an attempt to collect her. Sehun’s calm exterior conceals his mild panic as he thinks of ways to approach the situation without worsening Jieun’s tantrum.

“Oh, what’s this? Why is an angel crying?”

Like a spell, Jieun stops crying and stares at Jongin approaching her. Sehun watches Jongin kneel so they’re at eye level and gives Jieun a gentle smile. Jieun wipes away her tears and snot with chubby hands, blinking unsurely at Jongin. Sehun sighs inwardly in relief. At least she’s stopped crying.

“I want to see Daddy,” Jieun complains again, bottom lip wobbly. Fresh tears slide down her cheeks. “I don’t want a hanbok. I want Daddy.”

Jongin doesn’t do anything until Jieun’s calmed down. He holds one of Jieun’s hands in his; wipes away the rest of her tears with the other and says, “Your daddy will be sad if he finds out you’re crying. It will hurt his heart. Do you want your daddy’s heart to hurt?”

Jieun shakes her head. “But I want to see him.”

“You can see your daddy after you’re done with the fitting.” Jongin looks at the nanny, a silent conversation happening between them with one look. The nanny may have picked up on Jongin’s intent and chimes in with her agreement; hurriedly adds Jieun’s father will pick them up after ballet class, anyway. “Wow! See, Jieun? You’re going to see your daddy after ballet class. But before that, you have to finish your fitting. The fitting can’t finish if you don’t let the tailor take your measurements. That means a longer time before seeing your daddy. You don’t want that, right?”

Jieun shakes her head, frown vanishing from her face entirely. Jongin continues persuading her, entertains her through the fitting, showers her with praise. The first time Jieun cracks a smile, Sehun breathes easier. The first time Jieun laughs, so does her nanny (in sheer relief, Sehun notices). By the end of the fitting, Jieun can’t stop babbling about Uncle Jongin; gives him a jaunty wave goodbye, announces she’ll tell her daddy about the angel uncle she met.

“Thank you for saving me back there,” Sehun tells Jongin, after Jieun and her nanny departed. Jinju is submerged in silence once again, broken by the rifling of papers, rustle of fabrics, and their muted footsteps across the floor. “If you were a second too late, I’d probably have started crying with Jieun.”

Jongin’s beaming. Sehun takes in the sight of it greedily. “I babysit my sister’s kids a lot of the time. I pride myself in knowing how to handle them, so I think that’s true with other children, too.” He follows Sehun to his workstation. “Are you done with work?”

Sehun hums. “Not yet. You’re just early.”

“Never too early for you,” Jongin says, grinning in the way he does when teasing, though the words contain a seriousness Sehun knows he means.

“Touching,” Sehun answers; does nothing to fight off the smile from his face.

“Once the both of you are done being vile,” Wonho says in interruption, popping up in the entryway, arms laden with fabrics in varying shades of blue, the excess trailing behind him, “can I get an opinion on which one looks best?”

“Lighten up, bro,” Bumkyu advises from where he’s hunched over the sewing machine. “It’s not like we’re not used to their vile displays of affection.”

“My eyeballs do not deserve this mistreatment. I didn’t ask to be subjected to their blatant and unjustifiable acts of grossness,” Wonho counters, deadpan expression and wry humor eliciting laughter from everyone. Wonho raises his arms and eyebrows; directs Sehun a questioning gaze. “Well? I’m waiting for that opinion.”

Sehun sends Jongin a look in amusement, which he mirrors.

Jongin’s work schedule is lighter for the winter term, so he shows up early at Jinju. His increased appearances paved the way to friendship with Wonho and Bumkyu. Aunt Booja, who comes by on occasion if she’s not busy sewing at home, has taken a liking to Jongin and asks about him when he’s not around.

In contrast, Sehun’s days have become busier with hanbok commissions for _Seollal_. The influx of new clientele after their successful participation in hanbok week contributes, as well. If he’s undecided on a design or a color scheme and Wonho and Bumkyu are unhelpful, he’ll ask for Jongin’s opinion. Jongin will always say he’s not adept with the workings of a hanbok; but his opinions, though rough around the edges, carry weight and legitimate points. In time, Jongin sounds more confident with his input. Sehun pretends he’s never seen the books detailing the history of the hanbok inside Jongin’s bag. Sehun pretends he’s never seen Jongin’s open web browser on his laptop with tabs related to hanbok research.

It’s touching, how Jongin takes the time to learn more about the things close to his heart.

Today, Sehun works a little past closing time. Jongin whiles away playing games on his phone or reading a Japanese novel. Sehun doesn’t know the contents of his novels, though they sound interesting enough when Jongin provides summaries. Jongin’s love for books never changed. Reading novels in two languages is a great advantage. Sehun wishes he can do the same. Perhaps he’ll ask Jongin for more lessons.

Sehun laughs bitterly to himself. He can’t benefit from learning Japanese since it’s useless under the sea.

“Hey.” Jongin’s standing across his table, rubbing a finger on the point between his brows. “What’s got you frowning like you do?”

Sehun shakes his head and returns to work. He closes shop; notices the snowfall around them, how it’s thickened compared to this morning. White blankets the pavements, roofs, every surface exposed. This morning’s weather forecast resurfaces in his mind. “We shouldn’t stay out too late today.”

Jongin looks skyward; around. “You’re right. It’s too cold to be doing anything outdoors. Aren’t you cold? Your coat looks awfully thin.” Concern colors his voice.

“It’s warm enough for me. I don’t like too many layers.”

A half lie. On Sehun’s first year as human, the cold winter brought didn’t faze him at all. He swept Aunt Booja’s backyard wearing only a long sleeved shirt, unbothered by the frosty weather. Aunt Booja scolded him for going out without a coat and dressed him in one; warmed his chilled hands with her own and blew hot air on them, ignoring his assurances. Winter’s cold still doesn’t bother him. For the sake of blending in and avoiding suspicions, Sehun learned to wear coats and scarves, albeit the thinner ones since his body had adjusted to human weather.

Jongin doesn’t look convinced but says nothing further. “I’m too sensitive to the cold these days. This year’s winter is merciless. It’s why I bundle up.” He’s been using a lot of scarves, turtlenecks, and thick coats these days. Sehun feels overheated on his behalf.

The snowfall thickens. Temperatures continue lowering. They decide to stay in tonight at Jongin’s apartment since it’s the closest and buy takeout on the way.

Jongin’s apartment is nothing and everything Sehun imagines it like. Minimal mess, organized and neat, furnished with the right amount of furniture, walls and ceilings painted with the golden tones of autumn. Bookshelves line the walls, crammed with books written in Korean and Japanese. Framed photos on display, faces similar to Jongin’s own. His family, Sehun guesses. A cozy space for one, all in all. Warm, just like its inhabitant.

They eat from their takeout cartons while _Youn’s Kitchen_ plays on the living room television. The sounds from the show blend together with their shared laughter and discussion. They’re so immersed in the program they only discover the once-tame snowfall transformed into a snowstorm within the span of a few hours from an emergency news report.

“Oh, no.” Jongin takes a good, long look outside the window. He shivers after closing it and dusts his hair for any caught snow. “I can’t see anything down below—it’s all white.”

Sehun finishes scrolling down message advisories sent by different transportation companies. There will be no easy way for him to go home now. He sends Bumkyu and Wonho a message to not open shop tomorrow if the weather worsens; another to Aunt Booja to assure her he’s fine and to not stay up waiting for him. He makes mental calculations, forms backup plans if he’s to walk back home.

“Don’t even think about walking back home in this weather,” Jongin says sternly.

“I never said anything,” Sehun answers, shocked that Jongin read his mind.

“You’re thinking it. You can’t walk home in this weather,” Jongin says, sitting beside Sehun. “And I’m not heartless enough to send you out there and jeopardize yourself. Stay here for the night.”

Sehun hesitates, but the worried glint in Jongin’s eyes tells him it’s truly for the best. Eventually, he nods. Perhaps harsh-falling snow poses a real danger if trains and buses are announcing cancellation of trips.

Jongin lends him a set of clothes to change into after his shower; finds them an almost perfect fit on his human frame. Sehun is done drying his hair when Jongin comes out of the bathroom, a billow of steam trailing out the door. A puzzled expression is etched on Jongin’s face, standing still as he gazes at Sehun and deliberating whether to ask the question on his mind or not.

“You’ll get indigestion if you don’t say it out,” Sehun jokes, rising from his place on the couch and approaches Jongin. It’s a phrase he picked up from Aunt Booja, who uses it to prompt him and say what’s on his mind.

“I taught you how to use the shower. Did you not use hot water?” Jongin asks in honest confusion. “There was no steam fogging the mirrors, so…”

“I seldom use hot water,” Sehun says. He’s never found a need for it. Despite living on land with legs, his merman functions blended together with his human body so it can properly regulate his temperatures according to the seasons. Hot water feels punishing to his skin; makes it hard to breathe. Cold water, even on winters, remains the best for him. It reminds him of the sea; reminds him of home.

“You’re like a fish,” Jongin comments, grinning. Sehun tries his best to stop a flinch. Jongin touches Sehun’s hand; turns the palm upward for a feel. ”I know of no one who takes cold showers on winter. How can someone who takes cold showers stay warm? Aren’t you cold? Are your feet not cold?”

“My feet are fine.” Sehun can’t help laughing at Jongin’s childlike curiosity. He guides Jongin’s hands so they frame his face, palms warm and soft against his cheeks. “See? I’m not cold. Cold water just works better for me when bathing. I’m not going to fall sick, don’t worry.”

Sehun sees the dazed look in Jongin’s eyes; realizes the sudden close proximity of their bodies. Neither of them are blinking or looking away, breaths mingling he’s unsure whose exhale is warming his mouth. Emboldened, Sehun’s hold slips from Jongin’s hands down to his wrists, pads of his thumbs caressing the soft skin on the inside. In response, Jongin’s touch becomes steadier, surer.

“May I kiss you?”

Jongin’s question is uttered so softly, so quietly, like a reverent prayer. The remaining centimeters of space between them is too wide a gap for Sehun’s liking. It takes a moment to process the question. It doesn’t take as long for him to answer with a nod.

Time is wasted no longer at the tilt of Jongin’s head forward and Sehun’s eyes fluttering close. Their lips touch and slide against each other, drift apart, meet again in a second kiss, and another kiss still—hotter than fire, gentle as the spring rain, more fleeting than a lifetime.

Sehun’s lips feel bruised and warm after a final kiss, tingling with a yearning for more. Jongin is breathless, red spreading on his cheeks, to his ears. Sehun’s almost sure he can hear their synced heartbeats in the subsequent silence, rising in volume from the soft pecks Jongin gives him until Sehun reciprocates with his own.

It takes a long moment before Sehun speaks.

“On second thought, my lips are easily cold.”

It’s beautiful—and heartwarming—watching the slow spread of a smile on Jongin’s face; the crinkling of his eyes from the mirthful laughter Sehun’s caused, the swollen state of Jongin’s lips as their faces drift close to kiss again.

It’s beautiful—and bittersweet—for Sehun to kiss the man he’s fallen for and hold love in his hands as he deludes himself into believing he can keep both forever.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

Sehun can never say no to Jongin.

Resistance is futile in the face of a man who’s mastered the art of persuasion. Color-coordinating outfits, what to eat for dinner, destinations for the next weekend trip—despite pitching his own ideas, Jongin tends to win him over. He’s heard several reasons. He’s easily swayed (according to Wonho), or too kind (according to Bumkyu).

Aunt Booja has a different take.

“You are considerate, but assertive when needed,” she tells him in a hushed whisper. They’re waiting for their turn in the doctor’s clinic. She’s complained of hip pain, and Sehun insists they have it checked right away. Aunt Booja holds his hand in hers, and Sehun notices how thin and gnarled they look now. So different from its relatively healthier state six years ago.

“Am I?” Sehun questions, in need of a distraction from sad thoughts.

“Yes,” Aunt Booja answers. “I’ve seen you challenge Jongin’s ideas and decisions at times. You’re combative, so it’s not like you just agree mindlessly with whatever he wants. Jongin does yield to you, too. Relationships need a good balance of give and take to survive. Conflicts are expected. Healthy disagreements that are resolved quickly help strengthen your bond. What was it that Wonho told me a few nights ago? Ah, yes.” She chuckles. “He said you bicker like a couple married for five years.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Sehun admits. He and Jongin have only been dating for more than a year—how in seven seas do they look like an arguing couple of five?

He doesn’t think too deeply about it. In the end, no matter whose idea prevails or how much they argue about specifics, what’s important is they make up and have fun. Continue adding to their ever-growing library of memories.

Memories Sehun will take with him to the sea once his years as human are over.

“Wonho said that?” Jongin sounds amused; laughs in the same vein when Sehun shares the anecdote over a chicken dinner at his apartment. After that winter night, Sehun began staying over at Jongin’s apartment once a week. Twice, if Jongin pulls the puppy-eyed look he knows he’s weak for. Sehun hasn’t stayed over since spring began. This visit is the first time in a long while. “If we argue like a married couple, we must look the part.”

“We look married to other people?” Sehun is baffled and awed by the prospect of them projecting the image of a married couple.

“We can be married, too, if you’d like,” Jongin says in a casual tone, bordering on cautious. He’s staring fixedly at the chicken on his plate. Then, in an uncharacteristically soft voice: “Only if you want to, of course.”

“Marriage.”

Sehun tests the word as he chews. Marriages are revered unions underwater, an eternal bond shared between two merpeople. More, if they’re involved in a polyamorous relationship. He’s watched movies and dramas showing the different sides of married life. Perhaps they’re dubious sources, at most, since experiences vary from one couple to another; but they feed his imagination, his what-ifs. Sleeping in one bed; waking up together in the morning. Shopping for groceries; working in sync in the kitchen. Providing strength during hard times, facing problems together. Celebrating milestones; supporting each other’s dreams. Raising a family, children’s laughter bouncing off the walls of the house.

These, and so much more, Sehun wants to experience with just one person.

“I’m flattered you want those things with me,” Jongin says, in breathless surprise. Looks the part with his eyes wide and fond, tender smile.

Regret strikes Sehun twice. One is for thinking aloud. Two is for forgetting his place. The nerve of him to imagine what married life is like with Jongin. The complete nerve of him to raise Jongin’s expectations when he knows well enough he can’t stay and fulfill them.

He doesn’t have it in him to correct Jongin when he’s so ecstatic by this development. Jongin brings up the topic in future talks, slips it in so casually like it’s a natural part of the conversation. Sehun answers the best he can; loathes his dishonesty just the same. Misleading Jongin is killing him. The selfishness and lies, slow-spreading poisons.

And they spread faster after a conversation about one of Jongin’s co-workers, during a bicycle session by the Han River.

“They’ve been in a relationship for years, but my co-teacher only found out about their partner’s secret lately. He was devastated. I feel so bad for him.” Jongin shakes his head in pity. “Secrets can really destroy a relationship. But I don’t have to worry about that. You’ve never lied or kept a secret from me, anyway, right?”

Guilt pricks Sehun hard when he meets Jongin’s gaze straight-on. Pricks harder when he nods.

Summer once again. Sehun wants nothing to do with the scorching heat. Jinju’s air conditioning is a blessing as he prepares for this year’s hanbok week. Earnings from last year allowed shop expansion and staff hiring. Now, Jinju has more displays, more customers, more money flow. Their designs have garnered a lot of attention in the year previous, catapulting Jinju into a list of hanbok brands to keep an eye on. Expectations are high for this year’s collection. A ton of responsibility and pressure. Sehun takes it as a challenge; works together with Wonho, Bumkyu, Aunt Booja, and other staff. A common goal of showing something new and innovative this year stokes their creative fires, get ideas churning.

He’s not the only one working hard. Jongin has taken up teaching a seasonal Japanese course for the summer term, both in the main and satellite campus of his university. The summer term is more intensive since it lasts for only a month, so the workload is double for both teachers and students alike—almost triple, in Jongin’s case, since it takes an hour traveling to the satellite campus on a good day. Teaching, consultations, and staff meetings keep Jongin busy and sometimes too tired to do anything else after. Sehun understands; tells him to rest. There are other days to meet, alternative means of communication that don’t require physical presence.

Yet even those dwindle down to short text messages and shorter phone calls. Sehun takes pity on Jongin when they do video calls: freshly showered and in pajamas, exhaustion apparent and lining his face through his smiles. He’ll tell him to sleep. Jongin will refuse, insists he can keep talking; wants to hear about his day. It works, but Jongin often ends up dozing off with the phone propped up on one surface, so Sehun is treated to a view of his sleeping side profile. He’s taken screen captures of it on different days and doesn’t tell Jongin.

“Where’s lover boy? I haven’t seen him in weeks.” Wonho tries to come off nonchalant with his question, but Sehun sees right through the bluff. “Jinju is a little less lively without him here.” Sehun explains, and he nods in understanding. “Is that so? Suddenly he’s so busy. What’s he working so hard for?”

Sehun has no ready answer for that, but it sticks with him. In the end, he gives up searching for elusive answers. No use worrying over something he has no hold over. If anything’s wrong, Jongin will tell him. And he’ll be there to listen; figure out a solution together if it’s serious.

Past eight, but Sehun is stuck at his workstation doing inventory. He’s the only soul remaining in Jinju. Off Course’s album provides background music and company, songs interspersed with the scratches of pen across paper. Completing the task, he works out the kinks of his complaining body parts; notes how susceptible he’s become to pain. Back in the sea, the most he’s complained is a chipped scale, or if his fins brush against abrasive surfaces of corals and plants.

Sehun stretches out his legs before him. Beneath the pants he’s learned to use for everyday wear is smooth skin. Legs are convenient, but he misses his tail. The way it glistens under the sun, catching its light and enhancing its beauty. He misses going on adventures with friends, breaking free from the boredom of routine-like days. Exploring uncharted territories no human have discovered yet; befriending merfolk traveling from distant waters and learning of their customs and traditions. He misses the salty waters that gave birth to him—the life it’s granted, the gifts it’s bestowed.

He misses the sea, above all. Home.

_“…the sea is home and the home is sea, and nothing can change my mind about that.”_

But Sehun has learned home can be here, too, in the merry company of Wonho and Bumkyu, whose antics never fail to elicit smiles and laughter. In Aunt Booja’s steaming pot of sundubu jjigae after a hard day’s work. Home can be found in Jinju, where he can make customers happy with his creations and help fulfill the dreams of aspiring hanbok designers. From the happy meows and barks of the stray animals he feeds in alleys when he has extra food to share. Home can be found in Jongin’s hands and the way his fingers slot between the gaps; the surprise hugs from behind, his attempts in cheering him up to dispel Sehun’s foul mood. The kisses they share until they dissolve into laughing fits, or simply standing beside each other Sehun’s chest is brimmed full to the point of bursting.

Sehun presses a hand to his temple, sensing a dull ache forming. Confusing. So confusing. He’s been so sure of what and where home is in the past, but he’s now burdened facing two choices—or that he even has to choose—where he belongs best.

Much later that night, he takes out his prized music box and watches the pair circle in a timeless dance. The melody lulls him to sleep and slips in dreams of giant sea waves; of his grandmother smiling at him, beckoning him to come home soon.

Sehun wakes to the usual morning message from Jongin. It doesn’t banish the melancholic thoughts haunting him from last night.

Tail-end of July. Jongin reveals he’s finally free to meet, gives a time and place. Tells him to dress a little more formal; wears a blue silk shirt and black slacks to work. Sehun hums a tune while working on tasks; faces customers with more cheer. Wonho wrinkles his nose at him, but the smile fighting its way out of his mouth betrays his true feelings. Bumkyu congratulates him with a rather strong slap on the back. Sehun almost topples over from the force of it.

“It could be worse. At least he’s not moping anymore,” Bumkyu tells Wonho. He addresses Sehun next. “For real, though, it’s been so long since Jongin came by. Is he that busy? Or is he the type to forget about his phone when busy?”

“A little of both,” Sehun answers, remembering Jongin’s horrendous habit of misplacing his phone.On top of his original work load, Jongin’s also taken up tutoring students who need catching up. He mentioned trying to avoid failing anyone in his classes, especially graduating students retaking the subject. “It’s not like he’s avoiding me on purpose.”

Jongin has never given him any reason to doubt or be suspicious. He’s always been upfront of his circumstances. Sehun appreciates it; does the same. Not seeing Jongin or being with him physically doesn’t mean the affection has grown less or a sign of disinterest. Sometimes, life just gets in the way, and compromise is needed.

On the appointed time, Sehun drapes his blazer on one arm and leaves Jinju with smile on his face. Wonho and Bumkyu see him off with teasing cheers and jabs. Sehun feels the faintest hint of a breeze touch his face as he walks to the bus stop.

He arrives at the restaurant they agreed to meet at; is led and seated in a private room lushly decorated and shrouded in an intimate atmosphere. No wonder Jongin told him to dress up. The posh restaurant certainly won’t let him pass through its doors if he wore his regular shirt and jeans combo.

The door opens not long after and Jongin enters. It feels like an eternity waiting for Jongin to cross the room, but when Sehun rises to meet him and walk into his arms, the weeks without physical touch are banished by this single, exhilarating moment.

“Missed you,” Sehun says, the words muffled in Jongin’s shoulder.

“Missed you, too,” Jongin replies, and though he can’t see his face right now, Sehun knows he’s smiling through his words.

Dinner is divine, highlighted by the different kinds of food Sehun hasn’t seen or tasted before. He’s most fascinated by the sparkling golden liquid in his glass and the way it bubbles. It looks nice. The taste leaves much to be desired, though. A few more sips help him adjust until he’s better at drinking. Champagne is what Jongin calls it. Sehun takes note.

Conversation comes easy, though at some point, Sehun senses he’s initiating most of the talk. It’s not unusual for him to be more talkative sometimes. What’s unusual is Jongin looking like he’s containing himself from saying or doing something. Sehun’s curiosity is piqued; holds off asking and leaves the decision to Jongin. Sehun continues pretending he doesn’t notice anything odd. Jongin continues hovering between subtle and obvious.

Sehun slices through a confection called a lava cake for dessert. Jongin grows disturbingly quiet. Sehun forks a bite-sized piece and feeds Jongin.

“Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind, or will you need more time to decide?”

Jongin tenses, visibly flustered, a quick rise of red in his cheeks. Sehun feels a little bad for chuckling. Jongin reacts in the most charming of ways it’s hard to control himself from teasing him periodically. He does, however, sense the distress rolling off Jongin in waves. He feeds Jongin another piece and reaches for his hand; squeezes tight to convey his assurance.

“What is it? Is it something you can’t tell me now?”

Jongin squeezes back. “No, it _has_ to be now. I’m just… buying time. I thought I bought enough to last the night, but it must’ve expired already.”

Jongin’s analogies are sometimes lost on Sehun, but he nods, anyway. Doesn’t release his hand.

“So, what is it? It’s just me. Don’t be nervous.”

Jongin takes several deep breaths. Sehun can feel him trembling.

“The first time we met, you didn’t seem to like me very much.”

“Hey.” Sehun feigns annoyance by sporting a frown. He doesn’t do a very good job of keeping it on his face.

Jongin’s lips stretch into a tiny smile. He looks a little more relaxed, now. “We ended up being friends, anyway, and I’m thankful for it. I’m thankful that despite the years of losing touch, we still managed to find each other.”

Sehun isn’t sure where this is leading. Jongin sounds awfully sentimental, his words plucking at his heartstrings in all the right ways.

This time, it’s Jongin who holds his hand in a firm, warm grip. “You’ve made me really happy in many ways. Before we reunited, I’ve been happy, too. But after our paths met again, you added so much to my happiness. I hope I’ve done the same for you. So, I’ve been thinking…”

Sehun stares at the tiny box on the table, a shiny ring sitting snug inside. The ring doesn’t look something easily bought anywhere. Suddenly, past events he assumed to have no connection whatsoever come together to form the big picture. The talks and hinting at marriage. Jongin becoming busy. Jongin taking on additional work. Jongin looking too tired, albeit happy. Jongin hiding his intentions well, throwing off suspicion. Events culminating to this moment, down to one ring.

Jongin’s eyes shine with pure adoration, the smile he’s wearing the gentlest Sehun’s seen on him yet. The sight of it wrenches his heart.

“What do you say about continuing to share our happiness with each other?”

There is only one acceptable answer to this question. It almost slips from Sehun’s tongue. Strange enough, the word never leaves the confines of his mouth. Sehun knows the reason why.

He’s seen this scenario play out in various movies and dramas; remembers the first time he’s witnessed it on Aunt Booja’s television many years ago. Although Jongin doesn’t go down on one knee reciting the vows he’s no doubt rehearsed, no swell of dramatic music playing in the background, and an absence of grand preludes leading to the final moment, Sehun knows what this is called. What it means.

And it is precisely the meaning of this moment that holds him back from answering. Accepting the proposal means a commitment. Despite having no problems committing as long as he’s chosen the right one for him, Sehun cannot bear to break Jongin’s heart. The mere idea of it fills him with wretchedness. Why must he hurt the one he cherishes the most?

Yet this is precisely what he’s doing, in the silence stretching far too long between them; in Jongin’s fading smile as the moments wear on. Sehun realizes he hasn’t given an answer. His hesitation must be decorating his face if the hopeful light in Jongin’s eyes is gradually dimming. Every second witnessing it is like sticking thorns between his ribs. The lump in Sehun’s throat grows; becomes difficult to swallow.

“Is… is it too soon?” Jongin’s voice has turned quiet, and nervous. Dispirited. “Am I rushing you? Do you need more time?”

Even at his saddest, Jongin proves he can be understanding. Patient. Sehun doesn’t deserve this kindness. Him. It hurts. Jongin’s loosening hold on his hand hurts. Jongin’s eyes glazing over with unshed tears hurts. Sehun’s aware his silence pains him, but his mouth remains stubbornly, reluctantly shut. Though he may regret it, he tries.

“I…”

Jongin’s head snaps up so fast, gaze so intense Sehun wants to shrink away and hide. Sehun breathes in and out. Tries again, forcing determination.

“I…”

Sehun’s words tumble out but sound unintelligible to his ears. He doesn’t notice he’s stopped talking until Jongin’s hand around his retreats. Sehun wants to chase it back, hold it again, but what right does he have?

“Oh. I see.”

Jongin’s smile is wobbly, crestfallen face a direct stab to the heart.

Sehun is capable of saying no to Jongin, after all. He just doesn’t expect it to be like watching the sun losing its brilliance, or agony unlike any other crushing his chest in a tight fist.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

Seoul is blessed with sunny weather and clear skies, as if mocking Sehun and his current state of sorrow. His phone is void of notifications save for business-related inquiries and customer updates. Jinju bustles with activity yet fails to boost his mood or jumpstart his energy level. The amount of mistakes in his sewing is growing. On his third attempt at correcting a wrong stitch, Aunt Booja advises him to take a day off.

“You need to clear your head,” Aunt Booja insists, gently pulling him up by the arm and pushing him away from his workstation. “You can’t work in this state.” Then, in a hushed voice, she whispers in his ear, “You wouldn’t want to prick your finger by accident and have anyone else see, right?”

The question sobers Sehun a little. Back when he was learning to sew, accidents were impossible to avoid. One wrong move of his wrist resulted in the pricking of his finger, blue dotting and dripping in front of a stunned Aunt Booja. He’d been sure then Aunt Booja would turn him away, call him names, tell the village of his secret. Aunt Booja did none of those and tended to his wounded finger. She never prompted him for the truth. Everything was voluntary on Sehun’s part, revealing most of his story and keeping select parts to himself.

Sehun’s secret surprised her. Aunt Booja surprised him back by telling him what he was didn’t matter. She would help him guard his secret; stayed true to her word since.

Aunt Booja hugs him, soothing Sehun’s aching some. “You’ve worked hard these days. Rest.”

Wonho and Bumkyu have been exceptionally kind and patient with his sewing mishaps. He told them what happened. They sympathized, comforted him. Wonho griped about Sehun rejecting the proposal, but he was also the first to show concern. He prepared him breakfast; bought snacks for his breaks. Introduced chocolate bubble tea, a newfound love.

Bumkyu used a different tactic and took them to a _noraebang_. He claimed it’s been so long since he’s let loose. Sehun’s seen these establishments in passing but never entered one. He was clueless on how to operate the machines, and he wasn’t too well-versed with the songs in the catalogue. Wonho and Bumkyu taught him how to sing some of the ballads. Sehun’s almost surprised he sang them well after listening to the original once thanks to his merman instincts for song.

Sehun fills Jinju’s silence with music if he’s working. He avoids playing Off Course’s album on purpose. He’s scared if he plays it, his mind will stray back to that night. To Jongin. He’s not heard from him since. It pains him, but Sehun also understands; can’t do anything about it. Sehun is curious of how he’s doing, but he’s not cruel or heartless to show himself if Jongin isn’t ready to face him yet. If the sight of him is too painful to endure.

Regardless, Sehun wishes to see him. Wishes for reconciliation. But how does one ask forgiveness after hurting the other person so deeply? How does one mend a heart entrusted to you but broke with your own hands?

Sehun stays back late to finish commissions and closes Jinju—a recently-developed habit. His stomach demands nourishment, but his appetite is nowhere to be found. He can almost hear Aunt Booja scolding him for skipping meals. Fifteen paces away from Jinju, something lands right in the middle of Sehun’s forehead. It slides down the side of his face in a wet trail, followed by a second wet drop, another. Five. Countless.

Rain pours down in sheets, people seeking refuge from the nearest available shelter. Thunder rolls overhead. Not an ounce of rain has fallen since summer’s arrival. The rainfall is a welcome relief from the oppressive heat. Sehun’s skin feels cooler as he wipes away the leftover trails on his face.

Gasps aloud upon remembering an important memory, tears open his bag to check if his umbrella is inside, and dashes out into the rain.

Sehun burns with purpose and runs like never before. His legs carry him down familiar streets; his lungs burn and scream for air. He doesn’t think of anything else except for the goal in his mind, adamant of seeing it through. He’ll worry about the additional heartache later.

His journey ends upon arriving at his destination. He slows down to a walk, unmindful of his drenched state, brushing away the water dripping from his hair and obscuring his sight. Sehun’s only been to Jongin’s university once. He hopes his memory doesn’t fail him this one time.

It doesn’t, because he spots Jongin right away. He’s standing under the protection of his department building, gazing skyward with a slight pout. The way his eyebrows furrow confirms Sehun’s hunch. He watches Jongin exhale a sigh, and the moment the rain’s intensity recedes, he puts his bag above his head and prepares to run.

Sehun immediately opens the umbrella and jogs over to Jongin, shielding him from the rain before it can soak his bag.

Jongin’s eyes widen in unveiled surprise when their gazes meet and lock.

Sehun notes the tired slump of Jongin’s shoulders, the bruises under his eyes hinting at sleepless nights. They’re standing under the same umbrella, but Jongin feels so far from his reach.

Recovering from his initial shock, Jongin slowly lowers his bag and hugs it to his chest, like it can shield him from more hurt; Sehun himself. The gesture stings. Sehun knows he deserves it.

“You didn’t think of using the umbrella?” Jongin isn’t looking at him when he asks the question.

Sehun isn’t discouraged; continues looking at him. “I was too worried about you being sad to think of anything else.”

Jongin barks out a sharp, bitter laugh. Sehun flinches. The sound smarts like a slap; feels like one, too, even without direct contact. It’s his fault they’re broken in the first place; why Jongin hasn’t talked to him. Why Jongin is hurting. What right does he have to defend himself?

“If you have nothing more to say, I’m leaving.”

Jongin moves to leave. Sehun grabs onto his shirt sleeve, effectively stopping him.

“Being upset with me won’t make me stop caring about you.”

Jongin’s brows furrow, the stern downturn of his mouth hinting he’s not impressed.

Sehun panics, but he presses on because he wants this to end. Wants to make it right, in the only way he knows how, even if the aftermath results in a bigger loss for him. Even if, in the end, they’ve lost their chance forever.

“I didn’t mean to reject your proposal.”

“What next: you didn’t mean to hurt my feelings?”

“I didn’t, and I mean it,” Sehun answers. His fingers hold on tighter to Jongin’s shirt sleeve, scared he might flee. Jongin doesn’t shrug him off, though he’s staring pointedly at the ground. Sehun considers this progress. “When I rejected your proposal, I thought it would be for the best. I couldn’t continue deceiving you. I didn’t want to lure you into something as serious as marriage and make you regret your decision when you find out I’m not what you think I am.”

Jongin lifts his gaze, his mask of anger cracking a fraction. His eyes are searching, scrutinizing. “What do you mean?” he asks, after a long beat of silence.

This is the chance to make things right, and Sehun won’t let it go to waste.

They move to Jongin’s apartment for the talk. Jongin points to the bathroom; Sehun understands right away. He’s now wearing Jongin’s clothes, his own washed and drying. They’re sitting on the couch with considerable space separating them. Sehun hesitated to follow Jongin here, suggested a cafe would be better. Jongin retorted he didn’t want him falling sick, and Sehun left it at that. He wasn’t one to test the temper of someone he was still at odds with, even in the face of civil hospitality.

Sehun doesn’t wait for Jongin to prompt him a second time. He grips the cup of tea in his hands and talks. He tells him of his origins, the circumstances surrounding his presence in the fishing village years ago. Why he couldn’t keep his promise on the succeeding summers. What he’s done to become human again.

Sehun conveniently omits the truth of having just a decade. Stifles the imminent self-loathing conjured by the incessant guilt and selfishness.

Jongin is quiet for several long moments before he speaks.

“I want to ask what kind of elaborate lie this is to back up a proposal rejection, but… no matter how many times I turn it over in my head, I know you’re telling the truth. Somehow. No human who walks this earth has blood colored blue.”

Sehun risks a glance Jongin’s way. Jongin’s looking at him, expression no longer closed off, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

“You still remember that?”

“I remember everything about you,” Jongin says, with such heartfelt honesty Sehun’s heart clenches. “Your blue blood left a really lasting impression. Even then, I didn’t stop being your friend. I told myself maybe you had a special condition that makes your blood blue. These kinds of details don’t bother me.”

“And now?” Sehun asks, heart thundering in his chest from nervousness. Asking the question will lead him to his answer, even if it may come hand in hand with inevitable pain. And separation. He braces himself, anyway.

Jongin’s smile widens a fraction. “You think the fact you’re a merman will change my mind about wanting to spend my life with you?”

Sehun fights the smile trying to come out. Hope resurrects itself, but he doesn’t want to get ahead of himself.

“But I hurt you,” Sehun admits, cheeks burning with shame and regret. “I can’t apologize enough for that. Every night since, I close my eyes and remember how sad I’ve made you. Do you… do you still want to be with me, even after all that?”

Sehun’s mind tries not to venture to the future where he has to leave, but it’s the only thing occupying his thoughts.

“You hurt me, yes, that’s true.” Jongin’s words are measured and careful when he says this. “I didn’t take the rejection well. That’s also true. My head was a mess. _I_ was a mess. I avoided everything that reminded me of you. I avoided you. It hurt a lot to think you might not have wanted the same future we talked about. That I might have been too presumptuous and read the signs wrongly. It crossed my mind you were probably leading me on after numerous talks of marriage for whatever twisted reasons you had.”

Jongin runs his hands down his face; buries his head in them. Releases a weak laugh. “I must be twisted, too, because no matter how hurt I was, I still couldn’t give you up. The thought of losing you is… I don’t even want to imagine it.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” Sehun confesses, and he means this from the bottom of his heart. “You won’t lose me, either. That is… if you’ll have me. Still. After everything. I’ll understand if you won’t.” His chest constricts after the last few words leave his mouth.

Jongin sighs, though not out of exasperation. He sets aside his cup, scoots over to Sehun, and frames his face with gentle hands. “Were you not listening to me? Human, merman, werewolf, alien—whatever you are, I don’t care. You’re still Sehun to me. _My_ Sehun.”

“I’m sorry for the misunderstanding, and for hurting you,” Sehun says, pressing his forehead against Jongin’s. It’s important to say these things out loud. That way, the situation is thoroughly cleared up, and no one is left assuming. “No more fighting. I don’t like it.”

“No more fighting,” Jongin agrees, and when they kiss, everything in Sehun’s world feels right once again.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

Getting back together comes with some changes, good and otherwise. Communicating wishes and wants come easier. Misunderstandings and arguments are resolved faster; talked out, if needed. Fractured trust takes a little longer to mend, but Sehun doesn’t give up; proves himself worthy of regaining it, no matter how long it takes. And he succeeds.

Talks of marriage and the future don’t stop. They’re more comfortable approaching the topic than before. Disagreements are expected, but they learn to bargain and settle.

The second time Jongin proposes happens months later, when they’re huddled together in a single blanket while watching a movie. Sehun doesn’t register it the first time, too taken by the suspenseful sequence of events. Only when Jongin repeats himself does he catch the words.

“What?” Sehun turns to face him, gaping.

“Marry me. Let’s be happier than these couples we’ve watched in the movies. Happier than every other couple in the world.”

Though Jongin’s face betray no other emotion aside from seriousness, Sehun’s known him long enough to read the subtle cues of nervousness. He feels responsible for this reaction, but Sehun pushes past the guilt and adapts a thinking pose.

“At this point, I can’t do anything but accept, right? I have no choice because we’re meant to be together. It’s fate, destiny, written in the stars, what have you. I’d be foolish enough to let someone like you go—where else can I find a personal chocolate wafer sticks supplier?”

Jongin scoffs, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes, smile forming and widening by the second. He tackles Sehun in a hug, a miscalculated move, and they fall off the couch in a tangle of messy limbs and hearty laughter. Jongin pulls back but doesn’t get off on top of Sehun.

“So, is that a yes?”

Sehun rolls his eyes playfully. His heart sings a song of elation. He reaches up to cup Jongin’s cheek. “If you know the answer, why are you still asking? Yes, I will marry you.”

 

 

☆彡

 

 

Sehun’s attended weddings before, down below. They are festive celebrations, the entire population invited no matter where you hail from. Feasting and drinking commences; so does merrymaking. Songs and dances are offered most times as presents, treated with more importance than material gifts.

He’s not experienced a human wedding but has a vague idea of them from watching movies and dramas; coming upon them by chance in the streets, in commercial buildings. All of those pale in comparison to his own wedding, on the beach where he and Jongin met the first time so many years ago. Eventide varnishes the sky with warm tones of red, gold, purple; the rolling waves calm in their approach to shore.

Sehun’s heart isn’t as calm as he wishes, but that changes fast with a single touch as Jongin’s hand seeks his mid-ceremony.

Family and close friends are the chosen ones for their audience. They prefer it this way. More intimate. The people who matter the most, the ones they hold closest to their hearts, are those they want to witness this important chapter of their lives.

When they recite their vows and slip the rings on each other’s fingers, Sehun feels the first sting of tears in his eyes.

When they seal it with a kiss, Sehun attempts to preserve the rest of his dignity by blinking it away.

But when he catches the first teardrop fall from Jongin’s eye and brushes away the second with his fingers, Sehun abandons said dignity. He can’t hear the cheers and applause, his friends’ loud teasing, the crash of the waves, or the music playing. The rest of the world falls away around them as he and Jongin laugh and cry together.

On Sehun’s seventh year living as a human, he marries the love of his life.

This is the beginning of their lives together.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

Five heaping tablespoons of salt, mixed into a tall glass of water.

Sehun downs the concoction in one shot. He follows it with two apple slices, crunchy as they are sweet. They’re a pre-breakfast staple, a habit he’s picked up from Aunt Booja. They also help scrub away the lingering saltiness on his tongue. His throat is soothed not long after.

He stares into the bottom of his glass; smirks at the remnants of salty water. Normal humans can’t withstand the amount of salt he consumes. Except he’s anything but, and his body has been craving for salinity.

Pinches of salt helped, at first. Sprinkled on his food, his drinks. The tingles in his throat were soothed by the tiny amounts, until he begins reaching for more salt to add in his first glass of water for the day. Sometimes his legs itch, though he can see no physical causes. Sehun tests his suspicions and rubs salt on his calves; is relieved when the itch calms down, and a little scared. He’s thankful it’s not a recurring incident, compared to his parched throat in the mornings.

Sehun knows these are symptoms. He read them in the sea witch’s contract, cautioning him of their onset anytime within his ten years. They’re symptoms he can alleviate but can’t overlook; signs of a body yearning for its home, its original form struggling to break free from its camouflage. It’s not life-threatening but has a chance of becoming debilitating if neglected or ignored.

Sehun washes the glass and starts on breakfast. Though his body clock prodded him awake, he’s in no rush today. He takes his time cooking, and when he slices the last of the rolled omelet, warm hands are clutching at his sides, and a warmer body presses up against his back.

Unfazed but smiling, Sehun sets aside his utensils and turns around so he now has an armful of Jongin.

“Good morning. Did you mistake me for the refrigerator?”

“Refrigerators aren’t warm.” Jongin’s complaint is mumbled in the crook of Sehun’s neck, limbs lazy and voice laden with sleep. He presses closer, and Sehun can’t do much when he’s sandwiched between the kitchen counter and a half-awake husband.

Sehun settles for wrapping one arm around Jongin’s shoulders, laughing softly as he smooths down the clumps of hair sticking up Jongin’s head with another. Jongin has a tendency to head straight for the refrigerator in the mornings for his yogurt drink. “Just making sure. And you’re right: I am much, much better than a refrigerator.” He reaches for the yogurt drink at the counter he’s long taken out in preparation for this.

Through bleary eyes, Jongin unwinds one arm around him without having to separate himself from Sehun. He hums in satisfaction after drinking his yogurt. Sehun takes the bottle and sets it aside. “Why are you up so early? It’s Sunday.”

“Why are _you_ up so early? It’s Sunday,” Sehun echoes in a teasing tone. Jongin tends to sleep in when he’s nowhere to be, fully utilizing the privilege on holidays and weekends. Sehun sleeps in, too, for the sole reason Jongin rivals a barnacle in terms of clinginess; therefore, taking longer to get out of bed. Sometimes. He admits to exhibiting the same trait.

Jongin replies, but the words are too soft and incoherent for Sehun to understand. They stay standing in the kitchen with arms around one another, soaking up the other’s warmth, morning sunlight filtering through the window panes and bathing the tiles with splotches of yellow-white.

After lunch sees Sehun and Wonho in a meeting room, hanbok sketches strewn across the table as they discuss which ones are approved or need modifications. They’ve recently been contacted for their biggest project yet: a period drama, produced by one of the country’s biggest networks. Word of mouth and recommendations included them in a shortlist of contenders, ultimately winning over other brands and designers. Plenty of talks and bargaining were conducted before a satisfying contract was drawn. Sehun has never been prouder of Jinju’s rise in popularity and recognition. Jinju’s success isn’t of his doing alone, always giving credit to Aunt Booja, Wonho, Bumkyu, and the staff.

“Whew! That went surprisingly well,” Wonho remarks, once they’re out of the network building. He stretches his arms above his head, yawning aloud. “Bumkyu-hyung’s going to be thrilled when he hears the good news. Wish he was here to negotiate with us.”

“It can’t be helped,” Sehun remarks. “His family needs him more right now.”

Three months prior, Bumkyu’s girlfriend gave birth to their son. Bumkyu wanted a hands-on approach on caring for his child and girlfriend. It meant Bumkyu moving out of the apartment they all once shared, leaving Aunt Booja and Wonho its remaining inhabitants. Aunt Booja assures Bumkyu he can return to Jinju any time to help out, but they’ll understand if he prioritizes his family first. She visits them when her schedule is free, bringing food and other helpful items for everyday use. Sehun and Wonho tag along when able; shower the baby with clothes and toys.

Holding a newborn baby in his arms was one of Sehun’s more unforgettable experiences. He’s amazed by how tiny and fragile the baby looks, even more so cradled in his arms. Sehun’s heart melted when the baby grabbed hold of his finger, swept up by indescribable emotions as he watched him sleep.

“Never saw him so happy until his son came along,” Wonho agrees, nodding. “So, what about you and Jongin? Any plans to adopt in the future?”

Children were part of their pre-marriage conversations, although they haven’t touched on the topic since. Jongin’s affinity for children is strong, evident in his skillful handling of them. Children naturally gravitate to Jongin, too, whether in public or private settings, immediate kin or not. Sehun may not admit it out loud, but he’s awkward around kids. Merchildren are relatively easier to communicate with. Human children pose a bigger challenge for him.

“Do you want children?” Sehun asks, casually and out of the blue, later that afternoon. Jongin finished marking papers by the time he arrived. They’re meeting friends for dinner later, so free time is spent watching a movie in the living room.

It’s comical how Jongin turns to face him so fast in contrast to the slow widening of his eyes. A beat of silence passes before he asks, “What brought this on?”

“Nothing much,” Sehun says, but spills the truth, eventually. “I see how you look at children. I know you’re capable of raising them. I want to say the same for myself, but I’ll need plenty of guidance and supervision before I’m anywhere near your level. I’m willing to learn, though.”

The movie continues playing in the background, long forgotten and lowered in volume courtesy of Jongin pressing the button. A smile works its ways to his face, illuminated by the flashing images coming from the screen.

“Well, I’d be lying if I say I don’t want one,” Jongin says, picking up their conversation. “I’d love to raise a child with you. But I’d like it to happen when we’re more stable.”

Sehun’s puzzlement must show on his face because Jongin launches into a detailed explanation why, in spite of his profound love for kids, it’s not possible right now. They need to finish paying off their mortgage and loans first. They’re both at the height of their careers, with Jongin’s recent promotion, and Sehun bagging bigger projects than the last. If they adopt a child now, they may be unable to care for him or her to the fullest due to limited time and energy. Children entail major lifestyle changes and sacrifices. Either of them can claim they’re ready for the challenges—the prospect of becoming a parent is exciting, if not nerve-wracking—but can they maintain their interest and determination once they’re in the actual situation and nothing’s happening the way they imagined?

Sehun assimilates the information. So many complications for wanting a child. Some things he’ll look more into, even if they aren’t adopting right away (preparing formulas and changing diapers, to name a few), but he trusts Jongin to concede they can’t welcome a child in their household for now if it’s truly not the right time.

“Besides, we have all the time in the world,” Jongin says, curling into Sehun’s side, head finding its place on his shoulder. “Let’s think this through some more. We don’t need to rush.”

Sehun presses his lips together and swallows hard. Time is not something he has an abundance of anymore.

“Let’s play pretend.” Sehun surprises himself with the steadiness of his voice. “Let’s pretend we’ve finally adopted. What do you think we’ll be like as parents?”

Jongin makes a contemplative hum. He’s playing along. “You’ll teach our child a lot of things about the sea. Our child may become a marine biologist when they grow up.”

“Ma— _what_? Marine biologist?” Sehun parrots the words after Jongin repeats it a second time. They’re foreign-sounding to his ears, odd on his tongue. He doesn’t know the first thing about a marine biologist, but it sounds promising. “That’s nice. I think our child will learn two languages like you. He or she will read all the books in your shelves, no matter the language. Take up dance lessons—ballet? Is that what it’s called? Oh, and our child will grow up smart and sweet. Clingy, maybe, like someone I know.”

Jongin raises his head, huffing out a laugh. “Are you talking about yourself?”

Sehun neither confirms nor denies. Cracks a smile. “Do you want a boy or a girl?”

“I want a son.” Jongin’s eyes shine with excitement and happiness. Sehun’s insides churn at the sight. “I’ll be happy with a daughter, too. It doesn’t matter in the long run. He or she will be our child, and we’ll love them just the same.” He snuggles up to Sehun again; starts weaving tales about a future containing hypothetical children.

In Jongin’s version of their future, Sehun sees them in a bigger living room. A little boy sits on Jongin’s knee, an open book before them. Curious fascination plays openly on the little boy’s face as the pages are turned, echoing garbled versions of random words he hears from Jongin. On the couch sits Sehun with a little girl in his lap, struggling to braid her hair since she won’t sit still. She babbles in unfiltered excitement about their recent trip to the aquarium, enamored by the seahorses and dolphins, turtles and beluga whales; describes them with animated hand gestures and varied facial expressions.

The images chip away at Sehun’s heart piece by piece. How dare he entertain possibilities of a future with children when he knows he can’t stay. How dare he indulge himself in these fantasies of staying long enough to watch them grow, wipe away their tears when hurt or sad, protect them from the world’s dangers, shower them with love and affection.

Jongin, oblivious to his pain and dilemma, continues generating scenarios with great enthusiasm. Sehun doesn’t have the heart to stop him, because deep inside, he wants this, too. Wants it so much he aches for this beautiful future he knows, with begrudging, bitter certainty, will never come true.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

The thirst worsens.

Sehun rouses to a scratchy, aching throat many mornings after, saltine solution no longer effective. Eating a fistful of salt in its raw form helps, its container the first thing Sehun reaches for once he stumbles into the kitchen. The itch on his legs have worsened, forcing him to run for the washroom more often than he’d like at work to rub salt on the irritated skin.

Aunt Booja, ever perceptive, catches on fast and provides assistance; covers for him when questions of his whereabouts are raised. To avoid suspicion, she smuggles salt in a baby powder bottle for Sehun in the medicine cabinet, giving strict instructions to Wonho and Bumkyu they are never to use it.

Jongin notices something is off when he volunteers to cook dinner one night. He takes the salt container from the cupboard and frowns at its near-depleted state. Sehun flinches, even if it’s not directed at him.

“Why does a pack of salt never last for a week?” Jongin doesn’t sound annoyed, but the stare he fixes on Sehun implies he’s not letting this one pass without a proper explanation. “Are you doing something with the salt I should know about?”

“I needed it for my throat and legs,” Sehun confesses. Tells him merfolk who become human tend to miss the sea, its saltiness, so their body starts craving for salinity if they haven’t touched the waters in a long time.

Not the entire truth, but not a whole lie, either.

Surprise and understanding flit across Jongin’s face. “Sorry, I didn’t know salt was important to you. You should’ve told me sooner. Don’t worry, I’ll buy more salt starting tomorrow.”

Guilt flares in Sehun’s chest, a feral monster awakened.

Since then, beach trips grow in frequency on weekends, as long as time permits. It’s Jongin’s idea. He tells Sehun soaking in seawater is miles better than eating salt straight from the packaging. They don’t have the luxury of traveling too far from Seoul, but it’s the least of their worries as long as Sehun finds relief.

And it’s invigorating, plunging himself into the deep blue waters he’s longed for, body thrumming with unrivaled joy as Sehun swims and dives, over and over. Gone is the itching of his legs; the aching of his throat, fading to nothing. He races against the schools of fish, plays with any sea animals he encounters in the deeper parts. He only returns to shore when the sun is dipping below the horizon.

Jongin dries him off with a towel. “Wow, your skin doesn’t prune at all.” He stares at Sehun’s fingers in awed amazement; inspects his body and sees none of the wrinkles. “Why haven’t I noticed this before?”

Sehun catches a glimpse of Jongin’s wrinkled fingers. Another stark difference between him and humans. “You should’ve swum with me more,” he says, instead.

“I swam plenty, don’t worry about me,” Jongin assures. He pats Sehun’s hair dry a couple of times. “One day, I’ll perfect the art of swimming as fast as you. Who knows, maybe I’ll swim faster than you.”

“You’re welcome to try, but you’ll never best me,” Sehun teases.

Jongin narrows his eyes in feigned offense and pouts. “You think I’m going to let you live it down when that day comes? Highly unlikely.”

Sehun kisses the pout away, unable to help himself, and grins.

“Hey!” Jongin’s pout worsens. “I mean it. You swim like a fish. Okay, corny joke—don’t glare. But it’s true. I’m envious. I want to learn how to swim as fast as you. Diving, too. You have so much fun doing both out there. It’s expected, right?” The pout disappears, replaced by a smile.

Sehun nods. A lump in his throat grows. “I can teach you a trick to swim faster. I still doubt you can swim as fast as me.” He catches Jongin’s wrist before he can shove him on the shoulder, inciting laughter. Sehun recovers first. “And even if you do”—

_you won’t catch me_

—”you won’t catch up to me.”

“Is that a challenge? You’ll regret challenging me,” Jongin tells him, sounding determined. “Once I learn the know-hows, even if you swim faster, I’ll catch up to you. No matter how far you swim, I’ll be sure to catch you.”

The lump in Sehun’s throat grows more, but he wills it away; wishes he won’t have to speak anymore. It’s touching, to know the lengths Jongin will go to in gaining perspective, willing to experience things for himself to know what he feels; thinks.

And yet, no matter how skilled Jongin may become at swimming, no matter how fast he may swim in the future, Sehun knows catching him will remain an impossible, futile dream.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

The 7th Condition:

Upon expending your ten years of living as human, you will be called back to sea and no longer be able to set foot on land. All the humans you have met and come into contact with will have their memories erased. It is a preemptive measure to ensure the mysteries of the sea remain unsolved and avoid exploitation of the sea goddess’ home and her beloved children. Transforming a tail into legs is considered a great taboo, for it disrupts the balance of nature, and goes against the sea goddess’ wish of keeping the merfolk a secret from the world until she is ready to reveal them. Therefore, no traces of merpeople who once walked among humans should be left behind, and no merperson shall be granted a second chance of becoming a land dweller after the first time.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

Weeks become months, and Sehun learns to withstand the aching of his throat, the itching of his legs. Though they’ve slotted themselves into his life uninvited, he’s mastered the timing of their assaults; how to cope when they do.

The sensory assaults are new, transient in their duration and intermittent in their occurrence Sehun is left reeling and doubting if he’s imagined them. Customers’ voices are drowned by the tumultuous roar of waves. Dropping a towel on his feet prompts the sensation of sea foam lapping at his ankles. Washing the dishes triggers a glacial cold crawling across his skin. The perfumed scent of roses morphs to a saltier fragrance when taking a whiff from the bouquet he buys on the way home for Jongin.

The onslaughts are consistent, combined with a tight pull in his chest. It doesn’t last long enough to be distracting—a single blink, and the attacks fade; the pull, dulling. He notices the pull strengthens and sings if he thinks of the sea; throbs and cries if ignored or quashed.

Sehun’s aware this is the link he’s heard of from his grandmother’s many tales. Between the sea and its inhabitants is a bond created through genesis, nurtured as they grow. It is the link that guides them home when they’re lost; indestructible, even if they’re forcibly removed from the cradle of the sea. It is a sacred connection to the sea goddess, the creator of their existence.

Tonight, Sehun is working alone in Jinju, paring down the selection of chosen fabrics. Sky-high expectations rest on his shoulders for this year’s hanbok culture week. After the period drama’s massive success, the costumes he designed generated so much buzz interested parties dug up his name and Jinju’s. Visited. Bought and commissioned. A bulk of their new customers belongs to the middle-aged range, also avid period drama fans. Aunt Booja was more than elated to assist, entertaining people her age. Business thrives, and thrives further when Sehun confirms the rumor of his participation in a hanbok fashion show for the first time.

They’ve been preparing since last year after accepting the invite. A chance to show off the beauty and exquisiteness of the hanbok, whether in its traditional form or modern alternatives; how he interprets this year’s theme and conveys the message to the intended audience. Sehun and Aunt Booja discuss at length, plan together. Wonho takes charge of legwork, scouts for models with help from Bumkyu’s girlfriend, compile research. Part-timers contribute by labor or suggestions.

Sehun enjoys the process, despite the difficulties. Staying back extra hours for design modifications or complete revamps, healthy debates birthing different opinions. Since this is the first hanbok collection that will be put on the runway, everything has to be meticulously and thoroughly prepared.

Immersing himself in work helps Sehun forget about the pull; the link. He moves away from the table and heads for the shelves in search of a certain fabric. He skims over the bolts, fingers slightly brushing those within reach. Stops at a sapphire-colored fabric.

The link flares to life—insistent, waging war against its smothering.

Summons a voice in his head.

 _“Come home soon, child. The sea is where you belong,”_ speaks the voice, bewitching as it is haunting.

The sea goddess.

Her voice tunes out every other sound in the background; grips him hard so it’s impossible to hear anything else. The link tempts him to drop everything and run, heed the sea goddess’ words and dive back into her waters. Nothing is more important than obeying the sea goddess. Nothing is more important than going home.

“Sehun?” Jongin’s worried voice cuts through the impenetrable fog cloaking his mind.

Sehun snaps awake at the call of his name. He’s fallen to a kneel, grip on the shelf too tight his knuckles have paled. Cold sweat drips down his back. Beside him is Jongin, worry openly displayed on his face.

“What happened?” Jongin asks, helping Sehun to his feet. “I called twice, but you weren’t picking up. You don’t look so good. Is something wrong?”

Sehun scrubs a hand down his face to help clear his head. The voice is gone, and the pull in his chest has subsided. He wants to say he’s fine, but Jongin is gifted with an uncanny skill of sensing his lies. He uses the next best foolproof reason: preparations have been hectic, and he’s probably overestimated his workload.

“I miss the sea, too,” Sehun concludes his explanation. It’s a truth he doesn’t hide from Jongin. He ignores the link stirring in his chest.

“We’ll make time for a trip this weekend.” Jongin cupped the back of Sehun’s neck with his hand, brushing a thumb along a cheek. “Don’t push yourself too hard.”

A chuckle slips before Sehun can stop himself. “Isn’t that my line? Maybe you’re a bad influence on me,” he jokes.

The effect is immediate. Jongin’s frown turns upside down. Doesn’t shove him, like usual, but drapes an arm around Sehun’s shoulders and pulls him close to his side. “We can work hard, but let’s not push ourselves.”

“Give that advice to someone named Jongin, whom I had to nurse back to health when he was at the height of his research and fell victim to the flu out of neglect.”

Sehun remembered those long, agonizing days from months before. He’s helped Jongin with a variety of ailments—a sore back, stiff shoulders—but seeing him violently ill and confined to bed, weak and lacking appetite, was unsettling and worrisome. A sobering reminder of human vulnerability and his immunity to their disease.

Jongin pouts; glares in jest. Sehun squirms away from the pinching fingers on his waist. “I take better care of my health now. Give me some credit for that. If I get sick, I can’t work. You’ll worry, too. I don’t want that. I don’t want you exhausting yourself, either, so call it a day and rest. I’m not taking no for an answer, just saying.”

Sehun foresees a never-ending argument if he disagrees, so he gives Jongin what he wants. He’s learned to pick his battles. Jongin has a petty streak, childish with his retorts when he doesn’t get his way or has been bested in a debate. At times, if he’s in the mood, Sehun likes drawing it out by teasing him further, even if his arms suffer from the beating it receives, or his waist becoming an unwilling victim to crab-like pinches.

The planned beach trip keeps getting pushed back due to work. Jongin’s resourcefulness doesn’t stop him from bringing the beach to Sehun. One day, Sehun arrives home to a bathtub filled with water colored azure, the unmistakable scent of the sea breeze wafting in the air. It’s not remotely close to real seawater, and the artificial scent fades from his skin after a period of time, but Sehun appreciates Jongin’s intentions. Jongin stocks up on these nifty inventions called bath bombs for his use; is scandalized when Sehun tells him they look like candy but doesn’t taste the part. Sehun prepares his own baths using these, but he enjoys it a lot more when Jongin does it on his behalf.

Soaking in these baths seems to please the link. The effect doesn’t last forever, however.

The pull of the link evolves; stops relying on sea-related stimuli to revive itself. It flares at will, uncaring if it yanks too strong Sehun is forced to pause and take deep, steadying breaths. Sights and sounds shift between the real world and underwater scenery more liberally, now, intrusive as they are confusing. Sehun takes to double checking what he sees and hears ever since; passes it off as paying careful attention when asked.

His solo visit to Lotte World Aquarium seems to please the link. It thrums with bliss as he surrounds himself with the tanks and sea creatures. Sehun’s caught off-guard when one of the beluga whales swims up to him; lingers. Like their very first meeting, the beluga whale’s playful voice enters his mind; tells him he’s lucky he can go back home soon.

“But my home is here,” Sehun finds himself whispering in response, after making sure no other human is within earshot.

The beluga whale blinks beady eyes at him. _“The sea dwellers’ only home is the sea. My brethren and I are housed in these giant tanks and cared for by humans, but it is not home to us. Anywhere else aside from the sea is not home to our kind.”_

Sehun means to answer, but the beluga whale swims away before he gets a word out.

He wants to tell the beluga whale it’s wrong. He shared a similar mindset when he was younger, more naïve and set in his ways. After living on land as human for so long, he can now say, with utmost confidence, anywhere can be home as long it makes him feel safe and loved; his heart, at ease. Anywhere can be home as long as it’s in the company of people he adores and cherishes the most.

He returns to the apartment later that evening, eating dinner Jongin prepared, telling each other of their days. Jongin recounts the funny story of a student during consultation, and it’s amusing how much he’s laughing more than he’s talking. Sehun doesn’t interrupt but finds Jongin’s laughter infectious.

When he catches sight of the ring around Jongin’s finger, the light bouncing off it, Sehun touches his own; revels in its weight, its meaning. He smiles; shakes his head at Jongin’s questioning look. Reaches out to hold Jongin’s hand, their rings clinking against each other.

Here is where his heart feels the most at ease.

Here is where he is safe and loved.

Here is home.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

October, Hanbok Culture Week.

Sehun’s first hanbok fashion show is a massive success. Twenty pieces from the collection were showcased to the invited audience, showcasing more than a year’s worth of labor and love. Enraptured and awestruck, interested parties ask if they can buy this or that piece right away; place orders for those yet to be copied and set for sale in Jinju after.

Sehun remembers everything in fragments: waving and bowing to the applauding crowd, pulled aside for short interviews, mingling and chatting with hanbok pioneers. Aunt Booja stays by his side the entire time, answering questions on his behalf if he’s unsure of what to say. Wonho and Bumkyu are present, too, never failing to introduce them and give credit.

On one interview out of many, Sehun mentions the core of the collection is inspired by the most important person in his life. When prompted for an elaboration, Sehun’s gaze slides over to meet Jongin’s from across the room and mirrors his proud smile.

“I inspired the collection? This is my first time hearing of it,” Jongin says, rolling himself on top of Sehun, chin resting on top of his folded arms.

They’re naked in bed, sheets covering them from the waist down, damp skin cooling. Sehun isn’t sure what time it is. He lost track after falling into bed, Jongin attacking him with heated kisses in his eagerness to show appreciation. As far as assumptions go, the lightening sky outside suggests dawn is breaking. They’ve been awake for hours, then, but Sehun isn’t the least bit tired.

“I didn’t want to say anything in case the collection failed,” Sehun says, pushing away the hair matted on Jongin’s forehead. “Now you know.”

“I would’ve liked to know, regardless of results,” Jongin tells him, nuzzling his face into Sehun’s palm. Sehun knows he means it. Jongin always means what he says, especially when related to things important to him. “So, tell me. The theme of hanbok fashion week is ‘memory.’ How do I come into play?”

Sehun explains while running his hands through Jongin’s hair, tracing his facial features with a feather-light touch of a finger. Sehun tells him memory is what kept him going to find Jongin. Beautiful, treasured fragments of his life he’ll look back on when the longing for a time passed becomes unbearable; will hold close to his heart until the end of his days.

Jongin’s eyes drift close as soon as Sehun’s hand starts traveling lower, humming on occasion to show he’s listening. Sehun assumes Jongin has fallen asleep when he goes quiet and still, so he pulls up the sheets to cover his bare back. He presses a lingering kiss to the crown of Jongin’s head and holds him close.

“You are my most beautiful memory, and always will be.”

Sehun’s chest aches. He feels so drained all of a sudden. His hold around Jongin tightens, and he closes his eyes in the hope that sleep will claim him soon.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

Calendars are interesting objects.

Sehun had no idea humans used such a tool to keep track of passing days until he lived among them. Down below, sea dwellers relied more on instincts and moon phases to indicate the coming and going of seasons. Exposure to mankind’s literature educated Sehun of the terms _spring_ , _summer_ , _autumn_ , and _winter_. His time as human taught him how to use the calendar, enjoying its conveniences, became reliant on it.

Now, ice fills his chest as he flips the wall calendar to the new month. Sehun isn’t sure how long he stood staring at it. He feels a hand on his shoulder; turns around and faces Aunt Booja. Her gaze strays to the calendar and returns to him.

“It’s soon, isn’t it?”

The question is asked so gently, so softly, a knot forms in Sehun’s throat. Aunt Booja doesn’t probe further and runs a comforting hand up and down his back.

Ten years is a long time for the average human being. To a merperson, ten years is but a fleeting moment, gone in the blink of an eye. They live long lives, sometimes so long they lose track of the passage of time. What is time to an immortal species like them but to use as they please, at their leisure?

If Sehun didn’t take this chance, didn’t meet Jongin, he wouldn’t have thought differently. Now, it sickens him a little how time is taken for granted by his kind.

Business at Jinju is slow-paced but steady today. Bumkyu’s wife and son visit the shop coming from the supermarket. Their son, now three years old, is energetic as he is talkative. He’s taken a liking to Sehun, always running up to him and holding out his arms to be carried; squeals when he kisses his cheeks and reciprocates with wet smooches of his own. He asks for Jongin a lot. Jongin left a deep impression on the little boy after giving him a stuffed bear for a birthday present last year. The little boy calls him Uncle Bear for this reason.

On his break, Sehun munches on wafer sticks heavily dusted with salt. The aching of his throat has grown progressively worse and bothersome in the past year. Sehun eats one pack of salt a day now to alleviate the pain. It calms the link’s magnetic pull to the sea and the din in his head caused by the distant, endless sound of crashing waves. Sometimes, when he least expects it, the sea goddess’ voice will penetrate his mind, telling him the same thing she’s repeated in the last two years.

_“Come home soon, child. The sea is where you belong.”_

It was Jongin’s idea to pepper the wafer sticks with salt. “Sweet and salty go together,” he told him. He tossed wafer sticks and spoonfuls of salt in a paper bag, closed it, and shook. “People can eat salted caramel, why not salted chocolate wafer sticks?”

Jongin was right about the sweet and salty meshing well together. Since then, Jongin prepared it for him every morning, despite Sehun’s protests of doing it himself. Jongin heard none of it; prepared it religiously since he had more time in the mornings. New semester, new schedule.

Sehun’s legs still itch. Applying salt is still effective. But the itch has spread to his thighs, the soles of his feet. At first, Sehun isn’t sure how to remedy this. Soaking in a tub of water mixed with salt helps but impractical. Aside from the temporary effect, he can’t stay in the tub all day. He can only ignore it for so long.

The answer lies in the blue algae he plucks from the seabed on the next beach trip. Dried and crushed into fine powder, its healing properties provide longer-lasting relief than salt. Sehun scolds himself for recalling too late of his grandmother’s lessons about medicinal algae. He dives back for more and takes them back with him to Seoul. Jongin insists on learning its preparation. Sehun lets him.

Yet like all pain relievers, the potency wanes over time and loses effect. The pain, the itch bounce back with a vengeance—searing, paralyzing. Sehun is nothing but stubborn and grits his teeth through the mind-numbing discomfort.

The link adds to his problems, refusing to be silenced as it yanks him to yield to the sea’s calling. Day by day, Sehun turns it away. Day by day, the bond goes haywire, enraged by his suppression it starts eating away at him. The slow deterioration of his health attracts concern. Aunt Booja sets her foot down on one of his worst days; bodily removes him from Jinju and escorts him home.

“You’re wasting away.” Aunt Booja sounds so sure when she says this. She has her legs tucked beneath her, feeding him _samgyetang_ one spoonful at a time. They both know it won’t work but keep up the facade; pretend Sehun is suffering from fatigue and not something otherworldly.

“I didn’t know it would be this hard.” Sehun closes his eyes, head sinking back into the pillow. He’s on a foldable mat spread out beside the terrace glass doors, blinds drawn just right to let the afternoon sun filter through and warm him. He refused to lie in bed, even if it’s more comfortable. The space is too big and cold when Jongin isn’t beside him. “I read it in the contract. I know it would happen. Experiencing it is something else.”

Sehun finishes the soup, and they stay silent for a long time. It is Aunt Booja who breaks it with what she says next.

“Gain strength. Don’t give up. There’s still so much you can do before then. Use the remaining time you have wisely.”

“I spend my daily life with people who make me happy. That is time well spent for me,” Sehun tells her with a smile. Means it. He holds Aunt Booja’s hands in his. They’ve become thinner than he remembers, but never once lacked in warmth. “You’ve done so much for me, I feel like I can’t ever repay you enough.”

“Stop that,” Aunt Booja means to scold, perhaps, but the words come out with less force than she intends. “If anything, I should be thanking you. You’ve given me a second family with people more precious than those whom I share the same flesh and blood with. You’ve taught me what it’s like to dream again; that it’s not too late to do what you like.” Her eyes turn glassy. “You’ve reminded me what happiness is like from creating a hanbok. The joy it brings me seeing what I’ve created loved and worn by many people. That’s not something anyone can do.”

“You’ll continue to do well in the future, Aunt Booja,” Sehun says, squeezing her hands tight. “I say so, that’s why you should believe it, okay? Don’t listen to what anyone else says.”

The rest of Sehun’s words are strangled by the emotions clogging his throat. It’s painful saying these words, knowing full well they weigh heavy with an unspoken goodbye.

It’s painful saying these words, knowing full well Aunt Booja will forget him after he leaves.

Jongin fusses over him, never mind his numerous assurances. Sehun can’t blame Jongin for worrying. Seeing him ashen and weak shook Jongin badly. Although Sehun’s constitution has improved, Jongin still texts him every hour or when able through the day; doesn’t skip video calls on lunch breaks. Touched as he is by the care and concern, Sehun can’t help teasing Jongin about not misplacing his phone lately.

“I’m worried here, the least you can do is not take your situation lightly,” Jongin chastises. He’s frowning at Sehun, arms akimbo, brows furrowed.

Sehun puts on a show of sighing dramatically. A cursory glance tells him Jongin’s taken aback by the reaction; is watching him closely.

“You’re right. I haven’t been feeling well for weeks, and I think it has something to do with what you humans call ‘stress.’ Aunt Booja says it’s caused by working hard nonstop. She tells me I’m long overdue a vacation.” Sehun reaches for Jongin’s hand, hiding a smile when he doesn’t shrug off his hold. “Bumkyu-hyung says we can have a second honeymoon.”

A thoughtful looks crosses Jongin’s features. His silence is non-threatening, and already, Sehun knows he’s won before Jongin gives his answer.

“I can finally make good use of my leaves.”

Winter has yet to relinquish its reign, but he and Jongin are already discussing where to go when the weather is more conducive for a vacation. Jongin promises they can go anywhere Sehun wishes, the entirety of summer dedicated to this second honeymoon. Sehun notices a pattern in Jongin’s chosen destinations: near seas, easily-accessible bodies of water. Jongin declares he’s taken a huge liking to beaches. Sehun merely smiles, but the consideration makes him happy.

Close to the trip, Jongin packs their luggage with the excitement and enthusiasm of a child. He talks about the exciting activities they’ll do, the sights they’ll see, the new things they’ll experience. Sehun is glad for the distraction of folding clothes. It keeps his mind away from the looming sadness, the real meaning of this trip.

Summers always feels like one endless dream once it comes around. The most meaningful chapters in Sehun’s life happened in summer. Jongin prefers winter, was born in the same season. Mother Nature is never wrong, but Sehun thinks this is one of her rare mistakes. Jongin is the furthest from a winter child, exuding attributes of summer in many ways. In the way he laughs and smiles, in the way he brings so much warmth to the people around him; brings joy and life to them, even with limited interactions.

Sehun knows this best. Can speak from experience. Wishes he can continue being on the receiving end of every warm gesture Jongin does and will continue to do as summer personified. Yet he knows this is impossible, which is why he is more determined to cherish the memories once all of this is over.

The trip to Urasoe, Okinawa is one of them. Days blur together in a haze of sweltering heat and the boundless blue surrounding the islands. Sehun has known no day of not swimming and diving, the link in his chest singing a song of exaltation for having its pleas attended. For once, Sehun sees no reason to block the pull. Distantly, he thinks he hears the sea goddess’ sound of approval. Not once did his throat ache since, nor did his lower half itch.

Nights are cooler and fit for evening strolls, their visit coinciding with a festival two days before their return to Seoul. Sehun hasn’t seen anything like it before. Not even the first and last festival he’s experienced in his merteen years at the fishing village can compare to what he’s witnessing. Sehun wishes he can communicate with the locals, but Jongin is doing a pretty good job for both of them. Sehun doesn’t hide his smile seeing how charmed the locals are when Jongin talks. One smile draws so much attention, it’s magical.

The food sold in stalls is great, if not strange, or give a first impression as such. Sehun adjusts, is willing to taste anything as long as it’s not his kin, though his choices narrow down to a select few. Jongin teases him for having a child’s taste buds but ends up buying him more of the food he likes.

The fireworks are magnificent, lighting up the sky in bursts of different colors. The first time it happened, Sehun almost jumped from the deafening sound, heart pounding in fright and ready to flee. Jongin calms him with an arm around his shoulders, explains to him what fireworks are; how they work.

“You can think of them as fire flowers,” Jongin says. Fireworks continue to explode in the darkened heavens; proves his point. “Don’t they look like flowers bursting into different-colored fires?”

Sehun dares a look through the gaps of his fingers. Squeaks at the booming sound; hides his face behind his hands again. Fireworks. Sparks of light shaped like flowers. Jongin’s arm is a secure weight on his shoulders. He presses the side of his head lightly against Sehun’s and marvels at the fireworks with matching commentary. It takes a while, but Sehun manages not to flinch each time he hears the fireworks set off and admires their beauty.

Amid the hubbub, Sehun hears the murmur of his name. When he turns, Jongin surprises him with a sudden kiss to the lips. Sehun blinks at him in pleasant surprise. Jongin isn’t too big on affectionate public displays, but he’s also proven to be spontaneous in words and actions. Sehun returns the kiss, this time much longer, sweeter.

The rest of summer comes and passes too fast for their liking. Sehun brings home with him souvenirs for Aunt Booja and the others; countless memories preserved in mind and pictures. Jongin insisted on taking photos. Sehun concentrated more on living in the moment. Jongin chooses and prints the best photos to put on display in the living room. Sehun picks what makes it to their bedroom but avoids looking at them too long.

Months dwindle down to weeks. One night after closing time, Sehun takes out the hanboks he hid in a secret corner of Jinju’s storage closet. He lays them out carefully on the mat, folds them one by one. He wraps the garments in delicate tissue and packs them in boxes.

He sewed these hanboks on the side in secret, during the tizzy of preparations for last year’s fashion show. Among the long line of creations spun from his hands, Sehun is confident these hanboks are his best works. He labels the boxes accordingly; grabs his bag and pulls out the letters he’s written over the past few nights.

One box is for Aunt Booja, whom he owes his life. He thanks her for the love and care, the knowledge she imparted. For guarding his secret and teaching him the ways of humans. For introducing the hanbok, its beauty and intricacies; using it as a tool to bridge generational gaps and spreading happiness.

One box is for Bumkyu. Sehun’s included two more hanboks inside, one each for his wife and son. The little boy’s hanbok is meant to be worn on Children’s Day. Sehun wishes he can see for himself how the little boy will look, but he has no doubt he’ll be the most eye-catching among his friends. The third box is for Wonho, whose quirkiness and offbeat personality helped tide him through his bouts of loneliness, or when life seemed impossibly hard. His letters for Wonho and Bumkyu may be similar in content but doesn’t diminish his sincerity. He thanks them for the friendship, the happy and sad times, the brotherhood and the loyalty.

Sehun’s hand trembles reaching for the last box. This one is for Jongin, his one and only beloved husband. How regrettable he won’t be here to see Jongin wear one of his best creations. How unfortunate Jongin won’t remember who’s given the hanbok to him. His letter for Jongin is longer than the others. He blinks away the pressure building behind his eyes and tucks the letter inside.

Sehun heads to the post office the next day and gives specific instructions on when the boxes are to be delivered. The employee looks put off with the additional work. Sehun sings them an entire song before agreeing. As he leaves, Sehun realizes, with some relief and sadness, this is the last time he’s using the power of his voice on a human.

Sehun works on his last commissions; plays Off Course’s album on loop. No one asks why. If there are complaints, they don’t reach his ears. Wonho sorts to raising a quizzical eyebrow but doesn’t change the music. Aunt Booja hums along; never fails to give a comforting squeeze on the shoulder, a gentle pat on the head when she walks past his workstation. Tiny gestures to appease his sadness. Sehun is grateful; accepts them with his whole heart.

At a specific track on the album, Sehun stops working and spaces out.

_Kotoba ni Dekinai. Words Cannot Describe._

Sehun learned the title and its meaning years ago, when Jongin started teaching him Japanese. Years of on and off learning helped him decode the lyrics and piece together the story behind the song. The result is nothing he imagines. How does one of the most beautiful songs he’s heard speak about a bittersweet story of an unsuccessful love?

Still, the song is a favorite. Still, he sings it every time the song plays—a developed habit. Sehun can’t help it, even if he doesn’t have a lot of confidence in his singing on land. Wave frequency is different underwater, and it is where his voice shines the most. Here, it sounds different to his ears.

“Hmm? Are you singing _Kotoba ni Dekinai_?” Jongin asks so suddenly, Sehun startles and drops the potholder. Sehun calms down but loses track of where he’s stopped. “Well, don’t stop on my account. I want to hear you sing.”

“You’ve heard me sing it a hundred times before.”

“And I want to listen to you sing it a hundred times more,” Jongin reasons, unfazed, smiling. He hooks his chin on Sehun’s shoulder, peering at the bubbling pot. “If you sing with a happy heart, the stew will taste better.”

“How in seven seas are cooking and singing related?” Sehun doesn’t know why he still questions Jongin’s logic when he ends up believing him, anyway. Stirring away, he picks up where he lefts off. Sings.

Jongin doesn’t make a sound. Since discovering he can talk five years ago and overheard him singing months after that, Jongin jumps at every chance to listen to his voice. Sehun doesn’t notice anything weird, at first. He had to coax it out of Jongin, and after the confession he liked listening to him talk and sing, he was more flattered compared to the time his music teacher complimented the texture of his voice. Sehun sings more around Jongin, although he still feels shy about it.

Jongin only moves when Sehun finishes singing to kiss him on the cheek; praises him for his voice and diction. Sehun melts from the gesture, the sweetness buried in his words. Ignores the growing sadness that’s taken permanent residence in his heart. He will never be able to sing for Jongin like this again.

They’ve been stuck at home for two days since a typhoon’s arrival. The city landscape is awash in a melancholic gray, sheets of rain and howls of wind wreaking havoc on the streets. They’re warm and comfy indoors, work canceled for the safety of the citizens. The toasty apartment doesn’t stop Sehun from pressing close, wanting zero proximity between the lines of their bodies. Jongin doesn’t question anything; seems amused, if anything, and indulges.

Sehun stares at the calendar, zeroing in on today’s date. Full moon tonight, when the tides are at their highest; when the pull of the sea is at its strongest. For the entire day, the link has been throbbing; for just as long, Sehun ignores the pull, tries not to let it affect him. Hard not to whenever Jongin gravitates just a bit closer than close while eating or doing dishes together; monopolizing his lap as a makeshift pillow on the couch as he reads a Japanese novel. Sehun runs fingers through Jongin’s hair, surfing on his phone to distract himself from time ticking away. Unsuccessful.

Between websites are prolonged images of the sea and its waves flashing before his eyes. His throat hasn’t ached in a week, the itch on his legs eerily gone. It’s the link that’s taken over, consistent in its pull and increased in strength, cajoling him to abandon everything and dive back to the sea. Willpower is the sole thing Sehun uses to stave it off for as long as he can.

A tap on his chin. Jongin looking up at him, book lying on his chest. Sehun tilts his head in wordless question.

“Why do you keep looking at the calendar? Don’t deny—I’ve noticed you doing that the past few days.”

Sehun panics inside; deceivingly calm outward. He crafts his reply with care.

“It’s been ten years since my return to land. I didn’t realize I’ve been human for that long until I looked at the calendar and counted.”

Jongin’s mouth forms an ‘O.’ “An entire decade,” he says, awe lacing his voice. “We’ve only been together for five years since reuniting. Married for three. It’ll take a while before our tenth anniversary. I wonder what we’ll be like then.” He smiles. “I have an idea. We’ll be happier than we are now.”

Sehun breathes in and out a shaky breath to steady himself and his heartbeat. His throat burns, his eyes sting. He blinks twice; nods once, injects conviction to the gesture to look convincing. “I’m happy now.”

Jongin reaches up to cup the side of his face. Sehun leans into the touch instantly. “I am, too. You add to my happiness every day. Right now, as well. I don’t do well on rainy days, as you know. By default, typhoons are terrible to my mood, too. But I’m not sad anymore because you’re here. You chase away the gloominess of rainy days.”

Sehun swallows back the aching ball of emotion lodged in his throat. It’s not fair. None of this is fair. He doesn’t want to leave Jongin. He doesn’t want Jongin to forget him.

“Sehun?” Jongin is now sitting upright, concern on his face; in his voice. “Are you okay?”

Sehun nods shakily. Avoids looking Jongin’s way or else he’ll break down. His mind supplies an excuse. He stands to play _Kotoba ni Dekinai_ on the turntable, takes a red rose from the flower vase, and offers it to Jongin, replicating a memory from so many years ago.

Confusion gives way to surprise, and then fondness, as Jongin accepts the rose.

Dancing in their living room proves challenging as they move around and avoid bumping into furniture. Jongin leads them around the floor as they dance together. They sway in harmony to the rhythm of the song, the moment near perfect if not for Sehun stepping on Jongin’s foot and triggering laughter.

Jongin’s warm smile, Jongin’s bright eyes, Jongin’s encouragements and everything that makes up his wonderful existence—Sehun commits everything to memory, collects them with greed and locks them in his heart for safekeeping.

The next song plays. They stop dancing but don’t pull away. Jongin’s eyes are searching, inspecting his face. He grasps Sehun’s chin and tilts his head up.

“What’s wrong?”

Incapable of words and fearing their betrayal just the same, Sehun surges forward for a kiss.

Passion stirs awake, unstoppable and all-consuming. Article after article of clothing is discarded, torrid kiss after torrid kiss received and exchanged. Sehun isn’t sure how they migrate from the living room to their bedroom, but that’s none of his major concern right now. They tumble into the mattress in a frenzied, arduous heap. Jongin shivers beneath his palms as Sehun maps the lines and contours of his body with deliberate slowness, leaving no inch of skin untouched, like it’s the first time all over again.

It’s always a pleasure knowing he can unravel Jongin one searing touch at a time. Sehun follows the path of his fingers with his mouth, testing Jongin’s reactions with kisses, licks, little bites. Jongin responds to these gentle explorations with hitches of breath, hums of approval. Sehun kisses his way downward, and downward still. He eases Jongin’s thighs apart, caressing the smooth skin on the back, hands sliding up along its length.

Jongin’s fingers tangle in his hair and tugs as Sehun takes him in his mouth. Sehun builds and maintains a tempo he knows drives Jongin mad with want, determined to draw this out for as long he’s able. Sehun will never have Jongin this way again, vulnerable and pliant, desperate for his touch and everything he is willing to give. His chest aches from the knowledge Jongin will not remember this, or any of their other memories, beyond tonight.

Jongin tugs hard, the telltale sign he’s close. Sehun relaxes his throat, continues working him up. It’s a little quicker than expected when Jongin tenses above him, and wet warmth streams down his throat. Sehun makes sure to swallow everything and pulls away after drinking the last drop.

The soft glow from the lamp casts shadows across the room, highlighting Jongin’s flushed visage and swollen lips; the pure satisfaction and the swirls of lust in his eyes. Sehun likes the way Jongin watches him, lifts up his arms in a silent demand. Sehun works his way back up and into his embrace, flanking Jongin’s head as their lips drift together, apart, together again.

“You’re too quiet today,” Jongin says, ever perceptive, ever observant. He trails fingers down the side of Sehun’s face. The gesture is so tender it fills Sehun with anguish, though they have not parted yet.

Sehun holds Jongin’s hand and presses a reverent kiss to the back of his hand; another, this time to the ring on his finger.

“Let me love you. All of you.”

_For one last time._

Sehun works Jongin open with slick fingers; swallows every gasp, every moan, with fervent kisses. Hot desire thrums through his veins, his body; resolve grappling with his fierce need. But this moment, this night, is not solely about him. It is about the celebration of many years’ worth of love, albeit the harsh conclusion. It is about the creation of irreplaceable memories that will last him a lifetime, anchoring him on his saddest in a future bleak and wretched.

It is about letting Jongin remember, even if it’s just for tonight, that he will always love him, will love no one else but him, and may not love anyone else like this ever again in his immortal life.

The sweet press of their skin is intoxicating, their kisses bearing a similar effect. Jongin chants his name in reverent sighs when Sehun sheathes himself in his warm, eager body. The intertwining of their fingers, pressed to the pillows under Jongin’s head, tastes of intimacy and bittersweetness. The tight heat around Sehun is too much, too good, head spinning from innumerable sensations. Jongin’s legs twining around his waist helps ground him, as well as the assurances he whispers in his ear.

Sehun draws out each push and pull of his hips with tantalizing slowness; relishes the way Jongin tightens around him, a delicious, exquisite pressure. He takes Jongin apart and builds him back together with every thrust, every kiss. He wants Jongin to remember him—remember this—if only until the first rays of eventide. He wants Jongin to remember him, and what he has made him feel.

Jongin doesn’t beg with words. He begs with a tightened grip on Sehun’s arms, the soft moans slipping past parted lips, the silent plead in his eyes. Sehun heeds the unspoken request, drives into him deeper, muffling his groans into Jongin’s shoulder. A tilt of his hips, a timed push, and Jongin keens, a sound Sehun will never forget.

Sehun wants Jongin to reach his peak first. He pushes and pushes until Jongin’s eyes flutter shut, mouth falling open in a drawn-out moan, body trembling beneath him. Sehun feels a splatter on his side; sees white trickling down his hip bone. Jongin’s abdomen is stained with his release, cock red and twitching as come dribbles from the slit. He’s succeeded in bringing Jongin pleasure; now, it’s time for his own. He rocks into Jongin, mind foggy with nothing but the addictive heat of his body, until he shatters into a million pieces from an orgasm so intense his body shakes all over.

Jongin aids him through it, clenching around him on purpose until he’s spent; holds him against his solid, damp frame. Their breathing is loud in the silence of the room, despite the raging typhoon outside. The musky, heady scent from their lovemaking hangs in the air. Sweat fuses their bodies together as they lay in the afterglow for several moments. Sehun closes his eyes, burrowing himself deeper in Jongin’s embrace. Time is ticking beyond control, rapidly slipping from his reach. Under the weight of all the emotions he’s been feeling tonight, a rumbling despair swells in his chest, and a sob wells up his throat as tears fall unbidden.

He hears Jongin’s alarmed call of his name. Sehun refuses to look at him; conceals his face and tears away from view. He’s afraid of what he may see. Afraid his inability and unwillingness to leave will grow so strong, so crippling, nothing will mend him together in the aftermath.

But he forgets Jongin is determined, too—even more so than him, sometimes. It’s no surprise he rolls them to their sides so they’re facing each other. Sehun keeps his eyes downcast, sob after sob breaking free from his throat. The accidental glimpse at Jongin’s face tells him he’s confused, and concerned.

“What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” Jongin asks, with the kind of gentleness only he possesses. He wipes Sehun’s tears with his hands, kisses away the others, and makes soothing sounds.

“I am fortunate to have met you in this lifetime,” Sehun manages to say when he’s calmer, the last of his tears drying on his cheeks. How strange to say these words when his heart is breaking bit by bit. “There’s no one like you out there in this world, even if I’m to search for an eternity.”

Jongin’s confusion grows in the way his forehead creases, brows furrowing, but doesn’t say anything. Sehun musters enough strength and courage to bring a hand up to Jongin’s face, thumb caressing his cheek, and then his bottom lip.

“And for that same reason is why I can’t love anyone else like you, after you.”

Sehun doesn’t want to hear Jongin’s protests or questions, so he silences him with a kiss and holds him close. He kisses him with the determination of a dying soul and the passion of an undying love, burning bright even in the face of a diminishing hope for one hour longer, one lifetime more.

They make love until they are both spent; until Jongin gives in to exhaustion, curled up to Sehun’s side like he’s prone to doing when they sleep. Jongin’s hand rests on his chest, right above the heart, breathing shallow and even. Jongin looks the most serene in sleep. Sehun doesn’t need sleep, not now, so he watches him, takes in this sight, brands the memory of it in his heart and in his mind.

It is when Sehun loses track of time does the link in his chest sing a song of beckoning. Little by little, second by second, daylight filters into the room. No traces of a typhoon outside.

The regal voice of the sea goddess rings loud in his head.

_“Come. It is time.”_

Sehun slips away from Jongin and out of bed with plenty of reluctance. One last time he looks at Jongin, who’s still lost in the world of dreams. Sehun’s vision blurs; blinks twice so the world returns to sharper focus once more. Very gently, he presses a loving kiss to Jongin’s forehead.

“Though you will never remember me, dream of me fondly, always.”

Sehun walks out the room. Walks away from Jongin, one torturous step at a time. He opens the apartment door but gets no further than one step before the hallway dissolves. Sehun panics for a split second since he’s no longer standing in a familiar environment, but the unmistakable scent of salt, the feeling of sand between his toes and water nipping at his ankles quells his anxious heart as he recognizes the beach.

The waters geyser upward then split in half, revealing the imposing figure of a woman. Steel blue hair cascading behind her in infinite waves. Eyes dark and depthless, so similar to her fathomless waters. A crown crafted from precious aquamarine gemstones and pearls sits on her head. Her dress billows around her, the hem swaying like the rise and fall of tides.

Her mouth doesn’t move, but Sehun hears the command clear as day.

_“Come.”_

The link sings in the presence of the goddess; of Sehun’s proximity to the water. His heart is hurting, and tears are falling once more; but his feet advance one after the other, unable to resist the pull any longer, the last of his defenses battered down. Under the sea goddess’ watchful eye, he moves close to the water, and closer still until he’s in waist deep. Farther. The water reaches his chest. Shoulders. His chin. A little below the nose.

The sun rises and hangs motionless in the sky.

Sehun lets the waters drag him down.

He feels colder than he’s ever been.

 

 

☆彡

 

 

There are three more things you must know about the sea.

One is the stories passed among marine creatures young and old about a steadfast merman who followed his heart to live as human for ten years. He returns to the sea once those ten years are gone, disconsolate and sobbing in the arms of his grandmother for the loss of his happiness and his love. To this day, at certain times, his mournful cries can be heard all the way above by fishermen who set out at sea—a haunting, disturbing sound blending with the twilight that sends chills down their spines.

Another is the sea witch, who cannot predict if the grief-stricken merman will survive his colossal heartbreak. “Those with the purest of hearts suffer the most,” she tells the now-adult otter swimming round her tail, a hazy image of Sehun materializing in the waters of her cauldron.

And finally, the most important thing you must know—must remember—is that love shares similarities with the sea. It is ridden with mysteries and impossibly deep beyond any human or sea dweller understanding. It is limitless and unstoppable. It grants wishes and builds dreams, but it also drowns and overwhelms, ruthless in taking back what it gives whether or not you are prepared.

 

 

 

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. [言葉に出来ない](https://youtu.be/UqUFdMPd-FE) [ _Kotoba ni Dekinai; Words Cannot Describe_ ] is a song by Off Course, a Japanese folk band formed in 1969 and disbanded on 1989. The song was composed by Oda Kazumasa, the band's vocalist, and was included in their 1981 album "over". Sehun sang a bit of the song on TED Fukuoka Day 3 [161004].
> 
> 2\. Shin Wonho and Lee Bumkyu are Sehun's Dokgo Rewind co-actors. They played the characters Shim Jaewook and Goo Bonhwan, respectively.
> 
> 3\. Anonymous prompter is 90% accountable for all the pain and anguish that is this fic, because it would not exist if not for the prompt. I will be responsible for the 10% because I usually don't write sad endings, and yet.
> 
> 4\. If you are curious, you can read up on [maedup](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Korean_knots), [yutnori](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yut), and [gonggi](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gonggi). To refresh, Sehun demonstrated his gonggi skills on August 2013 in Shimshimtapa Radio, and on December 2018 in Midwinter Night V Live.
> 
> 5\. [Hanbok Culture Week](http://koreajoongangdaily.joins.com/news/article/article.aspx?aid=3054410) is an actual thing. Though this has inspired a portion of the fic, creative license has been used to fill in gaps to make certain elements work. Any and all errors are mine.
> 
> 6\. Here is [Twitter](https://twitter.com/mindstormfury/) if you want to say hi; here is [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.me/propinquity) if you're shy.


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